Transference
by LexLuthor13
Summary: Years after his expulsion from their campus, Empire State University decides to honor Victor von Doom by giving him an honorary doctorate. But what is the University getting at? Reed Richards intends to find out.
1. Warmth

**Transference**

_"A man's true delight is to do the things he was made for."  
Marcus Aurelius

* * *

_

_Latveria._

_Then._

Darkness.

She lies next to me, on her side. Her eyes, sapphire gems, stare at me with a longing gleam. A thin smile and, behind her eyes, passion—calm and warm—soothing both our souls. The second most beautiful thing in Creation. A completion of my person—an extension of my senses.

"Valeria."

"Victor." Her voice is music to me. A soft and confident melody echoing in my ears. Beauty. "I love you."

"I know…"

She is the only friend I need. The only one who truly knows how to make me smile. To show me compassion. A boy of sixteen wouldn't begrudge notions of love—childish in nature though they may be. No, our love is more potent. A constant reminder of life's simple joys.

A silken hand, calm and affectionate, slides across my chest and down toward my abdomen. I inhale slowly, feeling my chest rise and sink with the exhalation. The air is the smell of jade and of nature, warm against my body. For a fleeting moment, the world's troubles—its injustices and unfairness—sink away in the sweet embrace of her lips on my own. I feel her smile in my core.

"Victor." Her lips pull away, and our eyes meet.

"What is it?"

"What are you thinking about?"

Curious. Nevertheless…

"The American," I reply curtly. "About what he spoke of today."

"Did you take his offer?" she asks. My eyes narrow and I regard her inquisitively for a moment.

"I'm sorry," she replies with a distant gaze. "I shouldn't have—"

"No," I interject, standing. The warmth of the darkness slips away. I stand and pull a robe around my body, hoping to shield myself from the new cold. I turn to see Valeria, sitting upright in the center of the bed. Her shoulders sag, and she stares mournfully at the ground. "You shouldn't have."

Her head rises and stares at me with a peaked eyebrow. "Victor?"

"Yes, my dear. I accepted his offer."

"But—"

"I am to leave in the morning." It is a simple statement of fact. Devoid of emotion or pretense. "That is why I came to you tonight. To share a final moment together."

Valeria's hand passes over her face, wiping strands of onyx hair behind her ears. Her face is drawn—sad. Her eyes flicker in the darkness, and I approach the bed. I lower to the bedside, and embrace Valeria.

"Do not fear," I whisper calmly. "I will return. And when that day comes…things will be different, dear Valeria. I promise you."

In the darkness, our lips meet once again.

* * *

_Now._

_New York City. The Baxter Building._

"Huh."

"What is it, Matchstick?"

I look up from the afternoon edition of the Bugle and see Ben sitting at the opposite end of the table, spoon firmly clasped in his hand, going to town on a bowl of Lucky Charms.

"Have you read the paper today?" I ask narrowly.

"Nope," he says, and goes back to the blue moons. "And since when d'you?"

"Sarah recommended it. Apparently, it'll make me look smart. I guess she's into the bookworm thing."

"Sarah….Sarah," Ben's attention shifts from the cereal and his eyes roll in their sockets, pondering the name. "That's yer new squeeze? What happened to the last one? Melinda, Matilda…whatever it was."

"Melissa," I correct him with a sneer. "The one who ditched me and said her mother was dead just to get out of babysitting Val for a night."

Ben lets out a deep laugh and goes back to his cereal. "You knew what you was gettin' into."

"Fair enough," I shrug. "Anyway. The paper."

"What about it?" Ben asks, not looking up. I fold the paper and throw it across the table. My impeccable aim doesn't disappoint, and the heavy edge catches the pool of milk in the bowl, splashing it on Ben's super-duper-extra-large shirt.

"Aw, you sorry little ingrate!" he bellows and stands, throwing the chair out from behind him. It falls to the ground with a crash and splinters into a few hundred pieces from the impact. Ben's hands form into fists and he looks like he's about to pummel me back to the Stone Age. Upgrade.

"Tell me," I say with a hideously self-assured grin. "Are you more upset about split milk, or about that prize shirt of yours? 'Cause if you are, I know a Goodwill where you could get a whole truckload of 'em."

Ben grabs me by the lapels and hoists me into the air with one hand. The other hand stretches behind his head, ready to snap lose like a rubber band. Made of stone. And Lucky Charms.

"Ben, now wait a second. Let's be reasonable—"

"Bite me, Zippo."

"That's enough," a voice says sternly from somewhere to my left. My eyebrows peak and my eyes dart toward the threshold.

Reed, holding a mug of coffee in one hand.

Oh goody.

Prepare yourself for a 'stern talking-to, Jonathan Spencer Storm.' Ben sees the inevitable coming too and sets me down. Well—more like just lets go of me, and watches me fall to the ground with a thud and an 'ouch.'

"One of these days, you two are going to bring down the whole building, you know that?" Reed walks toward the table and picks the paper out of Ben's cereal bowl.

"Aw, you worry too much, Stretcho. S'not like it ain't been done a hunnert times before."

"True enough," Reed says, sitting. "But Johnny had a point."

"I think I broke my coccyx," I say weakly, rubbing the small of my back and standing as upright as I can. "Wait," I say, my voice going normal again. "I had a point? Is the sky falling?"

"No." Thanks for building me up and breaking me down, Reed. "Just pointing out the obvious, Johnny. Take a look at this."

He lifts the paper up over his head so we can see the headline, and a grayscale picture underneath:

**_"Empire State to grant Von Doom honorary Doctorate—details inside!"_**

Silence.

For about three minutes, none of us says anything. Me, I'm just waiting for one of them to say something. When neither does, I finally speak up.

"Okay," I manage, as nonchalantly as I can. "So what do we do?"

"It's a trick." Ben chimes in, punching one fist against an open palm. "I say we hop the first plane to Latveria and give Ironbox the what-for!"

Reed plays referee again and says "That wouldn't solve anything, Ben. We'll have to wait this out."

"Wait it out?" I ask in a sudden flash of disbelief. "What the hell?"

"Excuse me?"

"The guy didn't even graduate! He was expelled before he even had a chance to get a Master's and those schmucks wanna give him a Ph.D? That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

"You're right," Reed says with a shrug. He sips from a mug of coffee. "But they know as well as any of us that Victor's a genius on par with me or even Charles Xavier."

"Well, yeah," Ben says innocently, trying to sound reasonable. "But to be fair, Chuck ain't exactly lookin' in the pink lately, y'know?"

"Yeah, that's true," I say frankly. I make a mental note: next time we happen to run into one of those X-teams—and Wolverine, I guess—I'll start using up my sick days.

Reed finishes off his coffee and starts analyzing. The embodiment of a scientist. "The brunt of the issue here isn't **what** the University is doing. It's **why** they're doing it." Reed stands and sighs. He runs his hands through his hair wearily and walks out of the kitchen, into the adjoining lounge.

"Mebbe it's a publicity thing. Y'know...to boost enrollment or what-not," Ben says with a shrug. "Place prob'ly ain't been the same since you an' I left."

"Sure," I say. "Maybe they'll even rename it 'Von Doom University.' Sounds inviting."

Reed tunes us out—like always—and walks toward the far end of the lounge. He presses his hands against the panoramic window and bows his head, looking at the floor…or possibly Fifth Avenue.

"Something doesn't fit," Reed says; a hint of helplessness in his voice. "Why would the University suddenly welcome Victor back after the accident they **expelled **him for in the first place?"

"What's yer point, Stretcho?"

Reed turns back to us. "That he'll throw this back in their faces."

"You think so?" I ask, genuinely interested in the answer.

Reed pauses, regards us for a moment, then turns back to the cityscape. "I don't know…"

* * *

_**Continued... **_


	2. Moments

_Now._

_The Daily Bugle._

"Urich!"

"I'm listening Mr. Jameson."

"Yeah, good." Jameson clears his throat, scowls and straightens his tie. The one time I actually speak and don't seem intimidated—such as it is, anyway.

Jameson sits back in his chair, letting gravity shift him backward at an angle, letting him stare at the remarkable dinginess of the ceiling above him. _Dear God, the paint job in here makes us look poor. The kind of poor that only Newsday can pull_.

Jameson leans forward and presses a button on his telephone. A line opens to his secretary.

"Sally?"

"Karen."

"What? Where's Sally?"

"You fired her, Mr. Jameson. I'm your new secretary. What do you need?" I can almost hear the distance in her voice through the line. Boredom. Here's a girl that sounds enthusiastic for her job.

Jameson's eyes dart around in their sockets for a moment. Then he goes back to the receiver: "I'm tired of this gray paint in here; it makes us look like bums! How professional can we get when we look like a prison camp? And I want the newsroom done too."

"I'll get right on it. Though I wonder how a **cheap** painter will make us look more upscale." The voice gives me something to chortle about. Jameson glances disapprovingly at me for a millisecond, releases the button and goes back to a sheet of loose-leaf on his desk. I crane my neck forward a bit to see Jameson writing out what seem to be directions.

"Mr. Jameson—"

"What?" Jameson's gaze shoots back at me, sitting in front of the desk. Jameson looks almost…angry (or confused) that I'm still sitting in his office. If I didn't know any better, he probably thought he'd shuffled me out minutes ago. Yes, sir. Jonah Jameson's lightning-bolt synapses. Someplace just below Alzheimer's and above cognitive dissonance.

"You, uh, called me down here for a reason? I have a job, you know."

"Yeah, yeah," Jameson waves an expressive hand. "Call this a special assignment." Jameson reaches to his left and grabs the morning edition of the Bugle in his hand. With slight effort, he tosses it across the desk. I catch the paper in midair and glances at the headline:

_**Doom's Day at Empire State—Details Inside**_

Jameson points an unwavering finger squarely at my eyes. "They're giving that man a doctorate—moreover they're giving him reason to set foot in this country. You know as well as I do what this is about. It might be good for business, but this isn't gonna be good for anyone."

"I know that," I say, cocking my head to one side. And here I thought Jameson would enjoy rising circulation brought about by a foreign diplomat's visit. Even if said diplomat has…issues. I glance at my wristwatch. 11:30. I cancelled lunch for this—to be berated by Jameson? My time machine works…it's eight years ago all over again, and I'm the newbie in the newsroom. Way to go, Ben.

"Ben," Jameson says with a heavy sigh. "You're the best writer on staff. The one who gets all the big-ticket stories, for some reason. I want you up at the University when this goes down."

"Goes down? I think you're overestimating—"

"I'm asking you as a favor, Ben. Do it or don't, I don't care. I can find someone else."

I freeze for a moment and lets the words run through my mind a few times. _Best writer on staff, but you can get someone else? Does not compute, Jonah._ My eyes dart back and forth in their sockets quizzically.

"Um…"

"But I'll tell you this, Urich." Here comes the pointed finger. "You've got a sense for the dramatic, I know that. You'll want in on this. I hope you will anyway."

I sigh and lean back in my chair. A sudden pain rears itself in my temples, and I massage it away. A minute or three after Jameson's lips stop flapping, I lift the paper and stare the headline—more particularly, though, the picture in the center of the page. An artist's rendering of some monstrous effigy of Doom standing over that capital city of his with an attached caption shouting 'this land is mine!'

Nice job, Art Department. Way to bring in the new readers…

"All right," I say dismissively. Irritably. "It might be educational."

"Good." On an average day, Jonah goes through about eleven thousand emotions and facial expressions. Right now, he seems oddly calm. Serene, even. He hands the sheet of loose leaf to me. On it are directions to Empire's campus. Gee, Jonah, make me feel small again.

I fold the directions and slip the sheet in the breast pocket of my Oxford. I stand wave a passive 'good-bye' to Jameson, not bothering to see if he's looking back (he probably isn't). And I leave his office. On my way out, my eyes go back to the artist's rendering of Doom on the front page.

_At what point did I become the Bugle's super-villain detail?_

"Great," I say and feign enthusiasm. "What's next…Norman Osborn?"

* * *

_The Baxter Building._

"Reed."

Silence. In the darkness of their bedroom, Sue Storm sighs and taps her apparently-comatose husband on the shoulder. He doesn't reply, but snorts brusquely and turns over, pulling the blanket over the curve of his body, trying to shield himself from a cold that doesn't exist.

"Reed." Her voice is heavier this time. More forceful. "Reed, I know you're awake."

A murmur comes from underneath the blanket. "Dr. Richards isn't here right now, but if you'd like to leave a message—"

"Very funny," Sue cuts off narrowly. "Wake up," she says and taps his shoulder in three rapid successions.

Reed lies on his back and lowers the blanket to the middle of his chest; closed eyes stare at the ceiling. To his right, a bronzen light casts the bedroom in a new and different light. Everything looks brighter. Sue taps his chest again.

"Dimmer…lights," he murmurs, rubbing his eyes wearily.

Sue replies and waves a passive hand: "Oh grow up." She sits up and swings her feet out of bed. Moving to the foot of the bed, she grabs bundles of Reed's blanket in both hands and pulls abruptly. The blanket slides off Reed's body as he sighs and props himself up on his elbows.

"Happy now?" he asks.

"Sure," Sue says demurely. Reed rubs his eyes again and glances at the alarm clock on the adjoining nightstand. 5:30 am.

"Wanna tell me what's on your mind, honey?"

Reed replies, not missing a beat: "No."

"Come on." Sue lowers herself to the edge of the bed and clasps her hands neatly in her lap. "You've been tossing and turning all night. What's bugging you?"

"If you must know…"

"I do."

Another sigh. "Victor?"

Sue raises a thoughtful finger to the corner of her mouth. "And here I thought I was the one dreaming about other men."

"You've read the papers, Sue. You **know** what I'm talking about."

"Yes," she says, and follows Reed to the bathroom. "I was trying to be light-hearted about it. So much for that."

"I've been running over the facts for a day or two now. Ever since the first story broke," Reed says acutely. _5:30 in the morning and he's already in super-science mode. Cherish the moments, Sue._ With a flick of his wrist, Reed turns on the faucet, and runs his hands under the steady stream of water. "I can't figure what the University's getting at. Or what anyone intends to do about this."

"Do about it?" Sue looks in the mirror and sees herself reflected. Standing behind her husband, one of her arms gently massaging his shoulder as he washes his face.

"Yeah," Reed replies and yawns. "It's not exactly a well-kept secret that Victor's done…criminal things in the past. On our soil. If he actually decides to come, the mayor will probably get Tony or Steve to keep him in line—or one of us. It'll be like a fourth-grade playground: everyone suspicious of Victor and his apprehension as well; just waiting for an excuse to throw everything they've got at him."

"You're talking about reprisals." It's not a question.

"Yes." Reed turns off the water and walks out of the bathroom. Sue follows. When she reaches the bureau, she pulls a robe on and makes for the hallway and, beyond, the kitchen.

From the kitchen, she calls: "Reed honey, do you want some eggs?"

He calls from the bedroom, down the hall: "That's fine, dear." A moment later, Reed stands next to Sue, inspecting the eggs. Scrambled. Just as he liked them. Clever. Reed walks toward the coffee pot, pours himself a mug-full, and returns to the kitchen table.

"So anyway," Sue offers, trying to reignite conversation. "Victor?"

"Yes," Reed says, swiftly moving the mug away from his mouth. "One of two things can happen here. One, he takes the University up on the offer—which is unlikely—and comes here. If that happens, he'll claim his diplomatic immunity just to stay safe and we'll be powerless to hold him back. Two, he can crumple up their invitation and throw it back in their faces."

"What do **you** think?" Sue asks. Carrying an omelet-laden plate in one hand, she sits at the table and starts in on her breakfast.

"Personally, I hope he tells them to go to Hell."

"But he won't. Will he?"

"You might be right, dear." Another sip of coffee.

And then silence. Reed's brow furls. It does this when he's thinking. Super-scientist mode continues, and Sue's eyebrows arch pensively. Waiting for her husband to reach a thought—or to simply articulate it.

"Reed." Sue's voice cuts through the silence. "Reed honey, if you're so worried about this, maybe you should—"

"I'm going to Latveria."

Around this time, Sue shrinks in her seat. Her hand, holding a fork, quivers in the air as her husband stands from the table and finishes the last of his coffee._ And I was just going to mention talking to the University about it, not going into the lion's den._

"Honey, you—you can't be serious."

"I am, Sue. It'll be no different than any other time we've been there. Except this time I'm not looking for a fight. I suspect Victor isn't either."

"But—at least take Johnny or Ben with you."

"No good, dear. If Victor sees anyone else but me walking up to his castle, the end result could be drastically altered."

Sue asks touches a hand to her mouth in veiled surprise. It wasn't uncharacteristic, in a way, for Reed to take on something like this. But it was odd that he seemed to want to do it alone. "End result?"

"I've known Victor since college, Sue. Despite our misgivings in the past, you know as well as I do that he's a man of his word. With any luck, I can appeal to the better angels of his nature and see if he won't refuse the University's offer."

"What makes you think he will?"

"His distaste for America will—or should anyway—trump whatever egotistic compunctions he'll have. I can use that. I hope."

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	3. Now and Then

**_Now. __Latveria._**

It takes less time than expected for me to bypass Victor's aerial security measures. Automated drones—roughly fifty of them in the skies around Doomstadt--prompted to deploy explosive countermeasure chaff at a moment's notice of an intruder are….easily overcome. After all, I think I've been to Latveria enough to bat my way past whatever Victor thinks he can stop me with. A coded signal sent over a microwave frequency scrambled the aerial drones and told them to return to the nest and await further instruction.

Machines. Heartless and efficient, to be sure, but as gullible as any human.

Strange wonder, then, that with but a touch my fingers to the controls, the drones were sent away. The irony isn't lost on me. I punch a command into the computer and the car lowers itself to the ground automatically—kicking in the repulsors at the right moment and keeping the attitude just right.

The 'car finally lands in the middle of Doomstadt's forum—town square, as it were—a few feet away from a statue of Victor, wearing his armor. He's holding the excess length of his cape over one arm, and the other arm is extended to the sky. Looking for his next conquest, or relishing what he already has.

After all…how many of these 'villains' in the world have a country to call their own? I count three.

What little amounts of people are actually out and about in the nearby market steer clear of the car; they see the giant blue 4 logo on the side. They know who it is, or have a rough idea, and they stay way. The side hatch slides open, a ramp underneath the frame pops out with a pneumatic whoosh and slides down. And the frankly-small crowd stares at me.

Like a stranger.

And then I remember the last time I was here to talk to (fight) Victor. Perhaps it **has** been a few months.

I glance at a few of them, and tap the 4 disc on my chest: sending commands to the onboard computer for the Fantasticar to lock itself and do security checks every six minutes. Chances are slim any of the citizens would try anything with the 'car. Better safe than sorry, though. Night's coming fast, and even I can't gauge how long my stay will be.

The 'car starts running its first check, and my eyes dart around the people. Carrying modest amounts of groceries, modest amounts of clothing in leather satchels at their sides and across their backs. Heading home, or to work. Private business thrives here. No one works for Victor, though—"the Master" as they call him—unless they have some manner of technical skill. No, most people make their respective livings scraping food from businesses and farms that have been family owned since the days of Bismarck.

My eyes leave the people, and I make my way for the castle.

Sitting high on a ridge overlooking the rest of Latveria, Castle Doom is a darkened assembly of brick and metal three hundred years in the making, set against the navy-dark backdrop of a European night. From the forum, I see a few lights on the top floors glaring out across the encroaching night—watching and waiting to strike, it seems. Within the creeping darkness of the night, there's an almost palpable deepness to the shadow on the ridge. A darkness so profound and so suddenly noticeable to me…that the building almost looks like its draining light from the city around it.

I make my way up the cobblestone street—the only one of its kind and the only road at all that leads to the castle—keeping swiftness to my step. Ahead of me, the castle gets bigger and darker. As it does sometimes, my mind drifts to Victor. Our younger days, when we first met.

* * *

**_Then. __Empire State University._**

"_Hi there! I'm, uh, Reed Richards."_

_He looks at my hand like I wiped my nose with it. I withdraw my hand and try another hands-off approach to conversation. "Do you, uh, have a room-mate yet?"_

'_No,' he says and turns away from me. 'And I have no interest therein.'_

_"Oh. Reason I ask is that, well, we're both the theoretical science majors. We've both got our respective higher-up's to please. I thought we could maybe pool our resources, y'know?"_

_He turns back to me, and I stare straight into his eyes. The brown irises roll in identical circles, the already-sharp eyebrows angle further and he speaks again. 'Are you always this forward…?"_

_"Reed. Richards."_

'_Richards. There is nothing you can offer me. I intend to do my research to the utmost of my ability, and then use it to my good fortunes. I fail to see where any manner of friendship comes requisite. Good day.'_

_He heaves his duffel bag up over his shoulder and walks away from me. Not a wasted movement in his entire body. There's something…peculiar about this von Doom. The way he carries himself. Some kind of super self-esteem, or he's genuinely not afraid of anything. At all.

* * *

_

_**Now. Doomstadt.**_

That was a long time ago. That was Victor and I in…another life.

This is Victor von Doom—the "Lord of Latveria":

A stunningly accomplished man, despite the evident loss in his life; the voids created by his parent's deaths and left unfilled by years of scrupulous study, devotion to mysticism and ascension to the throne of Latveria. A man of great intellect—perhaps one of the greatest on the planet. If not for his own hubris, Victor could conceivably produce fantastic things in the name of humanity's advancement. A man of Gypsy heritage—a heritage which to those who knew him best, belies his obvious genius. And he **is** a genius—even I'll admit that. But a man like Victor—with all his gifts and all his fortunes and all his hubris—couldn't bring himself to be some lackey for "the betterment of mankind."

Mankind, to Victor anyway, was something he gave up on a long time ago, out of a broken faith in its systems. Instead, Victor used all his gifts in pursuit of his own ends. Living in America and studying theoretical physics at Empire State University; putting his talents to practical use for the Great American Military. After a heinous incident in which one of Victor's more clandestine inventions literally blew up in his face, he was expelled…and spent the next long years wandering the Tibetan mountains. When he returned to Latveria, he returned a stronger man; no longer bound by conventions of right or wrong, such as they were. The only thing he cared about was ascertaining his rightful place in his homeland. The King and Sovereign ruler of Latveria.

But this is the public story.

The story that Victor, in his private moments, might even believe.

The **truth** is more complicated.

Victor is…different.

He understands passion, and fury; the two are interchangeable to him; assets to be used to his advantage to attain goals. Love, he's only known twice—and it's left him wanting twice. Friendship is lost on him.

* * *

_"What are you doing?"_

_"I was, just…uh…I was looking over your schematics here—"_

_"And? What did you find, Richards? Speak!"_

_"There's an inconsistency here. In the transferal. It seems to fall short of your intended destination, assuming…you know…that's where you want to go."_

_"You question my resolve? My intentions to rescue her?"_

_"It's not disrespect, Victor, it's the truth. The equation is **wrong. **I wish you would **listen** to me for once. This thing could blow up on you and hurt more than just your pride."_

_"Your concern is noted. Tell me, Richards, have you always gloried in the appropriation of the work of others?"_

_"That's not what this is about."_

_"You're right. This is about my desire to save my mother; to rescue her from the ethereal plane. I **can** save her, Richards. Only **you** don't think so."_

_"Maybe."

* * *

_

A Doombot, clad in purple armor, stands at what a human might call parade rest—a wide, balanced stance, feet parallel, hands clasped behind his back—one pace in front and to the right of Castle Doom's massive bronze doors. Etched and crafted with intricate scenes of conquest and bloodshed—probably dating back to when the Turks danced into Medieval Latveria and made off with the King's wife—the doors are only precursory. They're art, all right, and exquisite as far as period art goes. And as the Doombot's programming dictates that it straightens its posture, I find myself rolling my eyes. I stop a foot in front of the Doombot, and the LED-red eyes stare straight into mine.

"Present identification." How very HAL-9000.

"You know who I am." My voice doesn't miss a beat. The Doombot pauses for a moment; the eyes stare out beyond me. And he comes back.

"Identification positive. Richards, Reed. Rank I-2. Proceed. The Master awaits you."

The bronze doors whine a bit and then creak open, slowly laying out Castle Doom's darkened innards. Assuming he hasn't moved his lab from the last time I saw it, it should still be in the northeast corner. The castle looks deserted on the inside, as usual; the occasional presence of Monets and Van Goghs on stone-laden walls dispels the illusion, though. I move through the massive banquet hall in the center of the castle, and my mind goes to Victor once again.

He understands jealousy—seeing it quite possibly in everyone but himself—and possessiveness, becoming angry when anyone encroaches on what's rightfully his. Or what he thinks belongs to him, like this castle. Mostly, though, Victor lives in a state of enhanced intolerance. At the world around him. At the intractability of that world—how it's treated him and how he, in turn, treats it.

Pride is a natural virtue of the aristocrat Victor fancies himself to be and indignation something he's built his life around: when anyone dares impugn the man's integrity or his place above the natural hierarchy.

And moral outrage is perfectly clear to Victor, insofar as he's outraged by affronts to his **own** concept of morale. Bad things happen when the inherently messy affairs of "normal people" get in the painfully obvious Way Things Should Be.

These days, he is entirely incapable of caring what any given person might feel for him, caring only what said person can do for him. Or **to** him.

It's quite possible that Victor is what he is because the rest of the world just…isn't as interesting.

As predicted, I find Victor in a darkened chamber in the Northeast corner of the castle. Staring at a wall of monitors, each of them showing something different going on around the globe. Tony Stark in front of the U.N. A bird's-eye view of Ben Urich getting in a taxi-cab by the Flatiron Building.

Other monitors show other things, but I tune them out, and focus on the Admiral's Chair in front of me.

"Victor." A response doesn't come for at least a minute. He's standing his ground. "I came to talk. About us."

"Richards." I sense…condescension in his voice. "Why are you here?"

"Have you read the papers lately? I know you do anyway, but I wanted to cover my bases; to see if you're still in the business of knowing everyone's business."

"The Doctorate." This is Victor being perfectly nonplussed.

"Yes."

He makes a sound that could pass for amused. A steel-covered hand issues from the chair, and reaches out to the computer console. It grabs a copy of the German newspaper _Der Spiegel_ and tosses it over the chair's crown. I catch it in one hand, and automatically translate the headline:

**_Latverian Dictator Granted Clemency in America._**

"They don't like you, do they? The Germans."

"Of course not," the chair says. "To falsify a headline such as that? America would not be so gracious to extend the charity. The Germans care as much for my authority as you do—disappointingly little."

More silence. I open my mouth, ready to speak, but hesitate for a moment.

"You have something to say?" he beats me to the punch.

"You know what they're talking about."

"Yes, I know. And you have come to discuss it with me. To mediate what you call a 'peaceful resolution?'"

"The **University**, Victor. They're going to give you a Doctorate, knowing you never technically graduated. Aside from the fact that they usually only give those to guest speakers like the President or Donald Trump, does this not strike you as odd?"

"Truthfully, Richards," he says and hesitates for a moment. "I had not given the matter serious thought. Perhaps for the very reason you mentioned."

"Good."

"How do you mean?"

"I'd hoped you were arriving at a similar conclusion. That this was a trophy exercise for them, that they wouldn't really expect you to take them up on it." After three seconds of dead air, I continue: "If you are planning on going, then I'm asking you to reconsider."

The chair rotates in place, and Victor faces me. Sitting casually—almost slouched—in the chair, in full armor. His eyes stare narrowly at me from behind the grey-steel facemask. He says nothing,and his eyes look like they're...questioning me. His eyes were always hard to read.

"Reconsider?" he asks. "How very presumptuous of you.

"What purpose would that serve, Richards? Aside from telling your kennel masters that Von Doom is afraid to travel to the United States? Nevertheless, you are correct, though it pains me to say so. This…situation foisted upon us by Empire State University seems nothing less than thinly-veiled charade for them to claim some manner of credibility. To triumph over me."

"The question is what do you do about it?"

"I am intelligent enough, Richards," he replies curtly, "to know that whatever decision I make, I shall be derided for it. Stay and the Americans would think me spineless. Go, and face ridicule for a failed endeavor which still haunts me."

"You're worried they're going to make fun of you? Victor, I hardly think—"

"Use that magnificent brain of yours for once. What force in the universe could have prompted the University to do this? Why would they do it now? Why not **years** ago, when such an event would have meant somethingto me?"

"When we were students, Victor?" I say, unflinching. "That was a different world. **We** were different."

Victor grumbles, and steeples his fingers, covered by the steel gauntlets.

"Something given has no value, Richards. I should think your cosmic endowments would have you believe that."

Silence. I fold my arms over my chest, pressing a thumb to the controls in the 4-disc. Down in the forum, the 'car should open shields and take-off, landing in front of the castle just in time for me to get onboard and leave Latveria.

"It's you the University wants to honor, for whatever reason."

"Tell me," he says abruptly. "What do **you** think, Richards? Their dimwitted pseudo-machinations aside, what is the verdict of the great Mister Fantastic?"

"I think you should spit in their faces. I think you should stay here and run your country—do what you're best at. I hope you will, anyway."

"True sentiment. Your honesty surprises even me."

"I'll ask again. Stay here, for your own good."

He makes that amused sound again, and stands from the chair. "Richards, any other man bringing this matter to me directly would have come to a different conclusion. I leave it to you, as always, to **force** a man into a frame of mind."

"I didn't force anything."

"Come now," he patronizes. He pauses for a moment, stares back the monitors and then comes back to me. "You must sense, Richards, that even a small part of your being would delight in seeing me associate with the rabble. You want to see mereceive due credit as well as anyone."

I bite my tongue, and think: _this isn't due credit, this is a sloppy publicity hound trying to make the Alma Mater look good. They'll be cashing in on you, Victor, everything you are and were._ And then a small part of me wonders..._maybe you know that._

"We will go." I can almost see the smile under his mask. "And I shall humor your masters, Richards. I will do to them what you could not, all those years ago."

"And what's that, Victor?" I ask wearily, feeling it requisite to do so.

"Prove them wrong."

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	4. Secrets

_Now._

_New York. United Nations Headquarters._

A chill wind scours the United Nations plaza.

Steve Rogers stands, dressed as Captain America, on the eastern side of the plaza—the side facing the East River. His arms hang heavily at his side, the vibranium-compound shield harnessed in one of them. The star in the center of the shield reflects rapidly fading sunlight.

Rogers doesn't feel the chill, or the wind. He doesn't hear the whine of small motors behind him angling for a landing, or smell the invisible coils of smog curling from the city to the river. What Rogers sees…is Brooklyn. It's not as great as Manhattan, per se; more like a sister. The hand-me-down. It wants to be Manhattan, but isn't, for some reason.

Manhattan, though—New York proper—is one of the hallmarks of mankind. Everything great anyone ever built or crafted was brought here, to New York, for exhibition. The Greatest City in the World, showing off the greatest creations in the world.

And in a few hours, it would be showing off Victor von Doom. One of the worst things humanity ever created. Of all the threats the Avengers faced over the years, Victor von Doom was surely not the most established. But he was always high on the list of threats. Beyond Cosmic Cubes, beyond Infinity Gauntlets, Doom's main weapon was always his mind.

As Captain America, Rogers had worked extensively with the United Nations and the US government on what both bodies called "Latverian Containment Policies" to stem Doom's potential conquests.

_God knows he has the ability_, Rogers thinks to himself. _One of those 'if, not when' scenarios._

"Storm's coming."

Tony Stark's voice is…grim. Gritty. Even through the armor covering his face—and his whole body for that matter—Rogers can tell about the man's voice. He's been drinking again—probably—but he carries himself well. Years of practicing soberness, even when the blood alcohol cries otherwise.

"Tony. What are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd come out and see what everyone's favorite Avenger was up to," Stark says idly.

"Is that so?"

"Security Council's favorite, anyway. You must be, for them to ask you to do this." Underneath the yellow armor covering his face, Tony Stark smiles. "Out of curiosity, what **are** you doing? Exactly."

"Who better than Captain America to hold Doom's hand?" Rogers says heavily. "Security Council asked me to watch him while he's here. Make sure he doesn't do anything he might…regret."

"You…" Stark trails off. Part of him waits for Rogers to pick up the conversation. "You don't like this do you?"

"No," Rogers says pointedly. "But I agreed to it, and you know me. Word is my bond, Tony."

"Well," Stark says, rubbing an armor-clad hand over an armor-clad chin, feigning thought. "You could have told the Security Council no. If that ever crossed your mind."

"It did," Rogers says, and begins pacing. He holds his shield loosely in one hand; the other hand clasped as loosely around his belt. As he paces, his head hangs low and he seems to take great interest in the ground. The cold and grey pavement lets his mind wander for a moment.

To Doom.

Victor von Doom.

The King of Latveria, legitimately or…otherwise.

He's coming to America, to New York specifically, to receive an honorary doctorate from the University that kicked him out years ago. And the United Nations asks America's most esteemed representatives (the ones that would answer their phones anyway) to assist.

Twilight lowers on Manhattan. Grey clouds saturate the sky in marbled patterns, and a mile away a bolt of lightning strikes the ocean. The air goes cold, and a wind kicks up. Inside his armor, Tony Stark's automatic environment processors switch on, keeping him warm.

"This is different," Rogers says.

"Hey, I'm just impressed you managed to keep the cameras away." Stark waves an armored hand passively.

"That was a condition of my agreement. No cameras and I get to welcome Doom."

"Sounds fair. So what, you'll take him to the University and then what? The night is young, y'know. You could be two wild and crazy guys." Stark sounds almost amused.

"Tony—"

"Before you start," Stark says and holds a preemptive finger in the air. "You're worrying, Steve. Don't. He's just here to bask in some kind of light for ten minutes, then crawl back to his cave with the rest of Western Civilization's worst. For those ten minutes, I think I can muster a courtesy laugh here and there. Who knows, Steve, you try to crack a dirty limerick, you might even get him to laugh."

"An optimist," Rogers says dismally. "That's…new."

"I like to think of it as extended humor," Stark replies, waving a passive hand. "You might join me for a chuckle."

Rogers cracks a smile—slightly—and lifts his head to the sky.

Through the clouds, a grey and blue hovercraft lowers from the sky; its repulsors slowing its descent to a comfortable landing. Once safely landed, a small ramp issues forth from the undercarriage and the side hatch opens with a pneumatic whoosh.

Reed Richards steps out first and stops at the top of the ramp to survey the two men before him.

"Reed?" Stark says absentmindedly. "What are you doing here?"

"You saw the 4-logo on the side of the 'car, didn't you, Iron Man? That was your first clue." Richards walks down the ramp and pats Stark on an armored shoulder. Captain America's eyes dart at Richards, and dart right back to the ramp. And the new figure in the threshold.

Doom.

_Get ready_, Steve. _Deep breath._

In all his medieval glory, standing there and gazing out at the United Nations Plaza. Behind the grey-steel facemask, Doom's brown eyes narrow, and he steps down the ramp. A slow smile creases across Captain America's face as he feigns enthusiasm and approaches Doom with an outstretched hand.

"Victor," he says cordially. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

Behind the grey-steel faceplate, one of Doom's eyes widens—Rogers' mind registers it as Doom raising an eyebrow—and the Lord of Latveria meets Rogers' handshake with apprehension.

"Indeed," Doom says. He extends an armored hand and meets Rogers' handshake in midair.

Iron Man glanced at Rogers, silently wondering what would happen next, back at Doom. For a moment, the two men, Rogers and Doom, don't speak and stare each other down.

_Like two alpha males_, Iron Man contents to himself. _Curious._

Stark turns to Reed. Underneath the yellow armor, Stark's lips purse. He's getting ready to ask Reed a question. Behind Stark, Rogers ushers Doom across the Plaza, to a waiting transport.

"So, uh—"

"Yes, Tony?"

"Why is that when we expect to see Doom arrive on his own…we find you escorting him?" Inside his head, Reed makes a note. _Tony tries to be stern. But it comes across as hollow._

"I'm not an accessory here, Tony," Reed says, feigning defense. "I went to Latveria myself to see if I could talk him down," Reed explains and holds his hands out in front of him, offering up innocence. "I guess you could say it didn't work."

"It's alright," Stark reassures him, slapping a hand on Richards' shoulder. "If you're up for it, we could use another hand here."

Stark leaves Reed's side, making for the waiting transport with Rogers and Doom aboard, but stops short and turns back to "Mister Fantastic."

"Reed?"

Reed, caught in his own devices, stops at the top of the ramp leading to the Fantasticar and turns back to Iron Man. "Yes?"

"Are you…coming with us? I mean, you know him better than anyone. Might help us."

"He's not a rabid dog, Tony, I'm sure you'll do fine. I've got to get back uptown. I've got business of my own to do, you know."

"Yeah alright," Stark says dismissively. "Are you, uh, going to the ceremony?"

"The doctorate?" Reed asks. _Redundancy_, he contents to himself._ You know better, Reed. _"Certainly. Meantime, you know where I'll be. Good-bye."

Without missing a beat, Reed turns away from Iron Man and into the Fantasticar. The hatch slides shut, the ramp pulls under the 'car, and the craft lifts into the air. Leaving Tony Stark alone in the plaza. A voice from behind him calls his name. He reminds himself its Rogers, and starts walking toward the transport.

And inside his armor, a metallic ping catches Stark's attention. He frowns for a moment and presses a button on the underside of his wrist gauntlet. A small microphone in the wrist hisses for a moment, finally giving way to a tinny voice.

"_Has he arrived yet?"_

Stark glances at the far side of the plaza for a moment and turns away, replying dubiously. "Yes, he's here."

_"Excellent,"_ the voice says, carrying delight. _"Things are proceeding accordingly, Anthony. Very soon we shall see if the great **Victor von Doom** is ready to join our…esteemed club."

* * *

_

_Now._

_The Baxter Building._

Ben.

That rat got into my Lucky Charms again.

He's sitting on the floor, legs crossed, with a blindfold over his eyes. Another game of hide and seek with Franklin.

"Aren't you a little old for that?" I patronize.

"Hey, if I can't honestly hide from the kid, I might as well get a laugh outta the kid."

"Fair enough," I say. "Hey, uh, you wouldn't know what happened to my Lucky Charms would you?"

"Nope," he says without missing a beat. "Why?"

"Boxes don't just wind up empty, Ben," I say in my best Ward Cleaver.

"Sure they do," he says, innocently enough, and shrugs. Then a smile. "If you're the type that eats cereal every fifteen minutes, that is."

"If I ate cereal every fifteen minutes, I'd know how much I was eatin'. You ate my Lucky Charms, you thieving sack 'a crap!"

"Whaddaya so worried about, Matchstick?" Ben whines and stands. He lifts the blindfold up to his forehead and stares straight into my eyes. "It's just cereal."

"It's **my** cereal!"

"How old are you?"

Damn. He got me there. "Fine," I say dismissively.

I turn around to see Reed leaning against the doorjamb. Beyond him, Sue's in the kitchen making a sandwich or…something. He's holding a box of Lucky Charms in one hand.

"Oh Hosannah!" I say giddily as he throws the box to me. "You're a lifesaver, Reed."

"I noticed the box was nearing empty when I left yesterday," he says and smiles. Consider this my good deed, Johnny."

I hug the box tightly. When Ben walks past me and pats me on the shoulder, I jerk away from him. Gotta keep the loot safe, after all.

"So how was the Old Country, Stretcho?" Ben asks as he follows Reed into the kitchen. They pull out chairs at the table and sit. I follow suit, and when the Lucky Charms are sitting unattended, Ben grabs a handful. As he talks to Reed he takes a few at a time.

"Fine," Reed says. Sue lowers a cup of coffee over his shoulder. "Though I didn't accomplish what I wanted to."

"What's that?" I ask, with a mouthful of Charms.

"I wanted to keep Victor in his castle, where he wasn't a threat to anyone but some self-aware Doombots. It didn't work. And now he's probably bored out of his mind while Steve and Tony drive him around like some tourist."

I amuse myself with a thought of Doom wearing an _I heart NY_ shirt. Heh.

"So…what?" Ben asks. "He's goin' through with this degree thing, huh?"

"Oh yes," Reed says wearily sipping the coffee. "He's going to prove us all wrong."

"He's gonna feed starving children and call himself **Mister** Doom and say he's not **all** bad?"

Reed cocks his eye at me and says, "Something like that."

"What I don't get," Ben interjects, "is why so many people seem pissed off about this? What's so important about Ironbox comin' over here? I mean—and this is comin' from me, a guy who **knows**—how bad can it be?"

Reed sips the coffee some more, and sighs. "Ben, do you remember college?"

"Sure, who doesn't?"

"Did you ever actually **meet** Victor while you were there?"

"Once or twice," Ben taps a finger to his chin thoughtfully. "Mighta been at a kegger. Heh. What a night. Ol' Mary Wolfman couldn't keep her hands off—"

"Alright. Then you knew about what he was doing with the government? The work he and I did in our respective laboratories in conjunction with our studies?"

"I knew you were inta the space program," Ben says blankly. "I shoulda figured Vic was in something just as nerdy."

"Yes," Reed says, clearing his throat. "He was. He was in the practical side of things. Building weapons, that is."

I decide to cut in. "So…that thing he built—to find his mother—that was a weapon?"

"No, Johnny. Victor kept that secret from the military. And the military kept his real experiments secret from **everyone**."

When Reed speaks, he doesn't stop for what seems like an hour.

"He was a ruthless workaholic, Johnny. Spent lots of sleepless nights in his private laboratory, just off his dorm room. Victor wouldn't come out for weeks at a time; only to go to class or to ask the Generals for supplies. When that happened, it was an all-day affair at Air Force bases and places no civilian could get into without being shot. Do you remember that time-travel platform he used on us?"

"The very same one we have in the lab downstairs?"

"Yes. Victor invented that. Time travel was possible, everyone knew, but Victor was the one who materialized it and got positive test results. He made robots with sophistication somewhere below Ultron. It's possible that Victor even pioneered the technology that makes stealth jets available now."

Ben yawns. "So what's the point, Stretcho? That Vic killed JFK?"

"My point, Ben," Reed says keenly. "Is that Victor knows things. Neither one of us spent years working with the government for peanuts, you know. It's part of the reason why the UN and Washington keep me in close contact."

"To monitor you?"

"To get feedback, Ben. They have their **own** scientists; I'm just a consultant when they need me. The same thing would've happened to Victor had he decided his **future** was more important than his **past**."

"So….they're afraid of him?"

"Of what he knows, Ben. Intimate secrets from before he was even born; things he learned while he was talking to Air Force generals—probably taking mental notes the entire time, cataloguing everything for when it might be useful to him. Victor is responsible, as far as intellectual property goes, for probably 40 percent of the military technology we had when you and I were in college, Ben. Everything that's come since then is based on one of any of his proprietary designs. The government **knows** he's powerful, and true to form they're afraid of it. My point, Ben, is that Victor knows a good part of our national defense, and he's sat on it for years. If he wanted to start a one-man war, he could do it."

"Makes sense," I interject. "Too many juicy secrets to give away. Robs him of the thrill of just knowing it. Like having a great steak and not eating it."

Ben whispers in my ear, "Nice, Bic-head, always thinkin' with yer stomach."

"Johnny's right," Reed says slowly. "The University wants to honor Victor's knowledge, and everyone else seems terrified of him."

"Should they be afraid of him, Stretcho?"

Reed says nothing. He looks at Ben, both of his eyebrows arched, and sips more coffee.

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	5. Maelstrom

**Author's Note I:** I seem to do so many of these. But this one is the result of some scrupulous detective work by markmark261 (by the way, you were right about deerstalkers; I've changed it to what I originally thought deerstalker was slang for: a tweed jacket), my own stupidity, and a desire to make reading easier for you, Constant Readers. I've thus re-upped this installment with minor changes, making it hopefully more clear to the reader. See if you can guess who the King and Queen are that appear below. You may be surprised. Enjoy.**  
**

**Author's Note II:** The President of the University—herein noted as Thomas—is a nod to Roy Thomas, who succeeded Stan Lee as Marvel's Editor-in-Chief in the late 1960's and is well-known for his work on _The X-Men_, _Avengers_, _Invaders_, and _All-Star Squadron_ for DC Comics. The date of the University's founding—1817—is meant to be a hundred year subtraction of the year of Jack Kirby's birth (1917).

**Author's Note III:** The incident Johnny and Parker speak of, where Johnny torched a part of one of ESU's buildings in a battle with a contingent of super-villains, occurred in 1992's _Fantastic Four_ #371, by Tom DeFalco and Paul Ryan.

* * *

"Are you ready for this?" 

Behind the grey-iron facemask, Victor rolls his eyes. When he responds, his voice is heavy and patronizing. "For what? To play patsy for your superiors, Richards?"

"I told you, Victor. They're not **my** superiors. But since you insist on making this my problem, I insist on making sure you're comfortable with the situation."

"Quite so. To answer your question, Richards, I am…at ease."

"That's it?"

"That should be enough for you."

"You told me before we left Latveria that you were worried about reprisals. Are you still?"

"I am prepared, Richards. For whatever manner of fight you wish to force upon me."

I sigh and bow my head. Even after all these years, he still blames me for…everything.

* * *

This graduation thing is quite remarkable. If I was a betting man—and let's say I am—I'd say only half of the people here are actually of a graduation mindset. The rest of them—particularly the three rows of press camped out in the seats ahead of us—are all about seeing a glimpse of the elusive Victor von Doom. I guess there's some kind of tabloid fascination with an eccentric king who spends all his time locked away in a castle. 

Crazies.

I manage to secure a few seats on the floor, behind the _Newsday_ people and in front of the twenty-seven rows of graduates behind us. It's a runoff benefit of being in the Fantastic Four. _Oh yes, that's right, we saved the world, we'd like a window seat please_. In the mezzanine above, parents look down on the spawns of their respective loins with teary eyes. I can hear the sniffles from here.

Yeah buddy, graduation. The end of one age, and the beginning of another.

The age of paying-for-your-own-health-insurance. The age of responsibility. It's a lesson Sue's tried to instill in me a few times since we found ourselves with funky new powers. Do the lessons stick? Sometimes.

Ben Urich sits on one side of me scrawling notes in a legal pad secured on a crossed leg. He doesn't bother looking up. I crane my neck over his shoulder slowly, and I swear it looks like he's doodling a rowboat.

I turn to my other side, to Peter Parker. He's sitting slouched in his chair, drumming his fingers on his knees and staring at the freakishly ornate ceiling.

"How you doing?"

"Kinda cold. Don't they have heat in this place?"

"I wouldn't know," I say distantly.

"Well, sure you would," he says. A smile creases across his face. "You went here once didn't you?"

Way to dig up ancient history, Pete.

"Wasn't this the one you burnt down?" Pete says and stares thoughtfully at the ceiling and the crystal chandelier anchored firmly in its center.

"Thank you for that," I say dryly. "For the record, I only burned down part of a building, and there were villains involved. Get off me."

"Duly noted," Pete says quietly, and snickers under his breath. "Zippo."

* * *

_The Upper Mezzanine._

"Are you alright, my Queen? You seem…distressed."

"It's…been a long time since I have stepped foot on these grounds."

"Riots and massacres have no place in Academia, my dear. You are above that."

"As are most in our esteemed organization, my King. I understand this. I have felt pain, and I have known its grip."

"I sense you wish to inflict that pain on our new prospect. Don't. He will be far too useful for mere parlor tricks."

"Are you so certain, my King?"

"Yes. He **will** help us. Whether he wants to or not, Emma."

* * *

_Backstage._

I shouldn't be surprised. I've seen this behavior in Victor before. More of that heightened intolerance.

He blames me. Still.

When it was his fault, not mine.

It was Victor's fault that caused that explosion. Victor's fault that he became disfigured. Victor's fault that he's spent his life alone. And yet he sees fit to impugn me every time we meet. Trying to make himself feel better by knocking everyone else down, so he can easily stand above us.

It was his fault. **His** price to bear.

He's spent too much time running from himself.

This degree is just fuel in the fire.

A blood-red curtain separates the audience from Victor, myself and Iron Man. A podium sits a meter from us, with an embossed gold symbol on the side—and probably the front—that reads **_Empire State University_**, and date of the founding: 1817.

Victor stands next to me, arms folded confidently over his chest. The intake of air through the grating in his facemask almost makes him sound asthmatic. My head lifts and I look him in the eyes. I am probably the only one who can get away with doing so.

"Have a seat, Victor."

"I prefer to stand, Richards"

"Suit yourself."

Tony sits on the other side of me, holding his helmet in his hands and staring at the parallel bars of hardwood flooring beneath his chair.

"Tony? Are you alright?"

"Yeah," he says, not looking up. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He's worried. But not about the ceremony.

My head angles away from Tony to see a man in a brown tweed suit walking toward us quickly. This is the University's President. He feigns a smile and clasps his hands at mid-torso. I stand when he stops in front of me. A look of puzzlement crosses his face, but only for a moment.

"Where is Captain America?" he asks. "I was under the impression that he was the liaison here?"

"He had some other business to take care of," Tony interjects. He stands and slides the helmet over his head. His voice sounds suddenly mechanical. "No worries, Dr. Thomas. We have this well in hand."

"Well, good," Thomas says. He turns back to Victor and claps a hand on an armored shoulder. Underneath the armor, I can almost see Victor cringing at human contact. "Let's get started."

* * *

"I'm telling you, Pete, there were lives at stake. What was I supposed to do—take the fight outside?" 

"You **were** outside," Pete says, puzzled.

Ben taps my shoulder and says curtly: "Quiet you two, they're starting."

"Wish I had some popcorn," Pete says thoughtfully. The blood-red curtains part and lift into the darkness of the ceiling, and a sharp-dressed man in a tweed suit (yikes) stands behind the podium wearing a wide smile. Behind me, the graduates erupt in applause, as do their parents. The _Newsday_ people get the legal pads and video cameras ready.

* * *

The President waves his hand and tells the crowd to quiet down. 

"Thank you, thank you," he says, accepting the praise, doing a bad job of shrugging it off. "I'm pleased to be here and to be with all of you, Empire State's finest. You represent the best facet of this University, and simply making it to this momentous day is an occasion to be commended. Congratulations on your success thus far, and I wish you all the best for the future."

The auditorium falls silent. From the Mezzanine, somebody yells "bring out Doom!"

Thomas smiles and looks over at the three of us, standing in the blinding focus of a spotlight.

I smile and wave politely at the crowd.

Tony does the same.

Victor does nothing. His arms are still crossed over his chest. His eyes roll around in their sockets, gazing at the surroundings with practiced indifference.

This is awkward.

Thomas clears his throat. I make circular motion in the air with my finger, motioning Thomas to move on.

"Uh, without further adieu," he says haphazardly. He makes the conscious decision to take his gaze off Victor and looks back at the darkness of the auditorium. "It gives me great pleasure to introduce tonight's keynote speaker and our Guest of Honor. Some of you may have heard of him in the newspapers over the years. Whereas he once came from humble roots in Eastern Europe, destiny inevitably brought him to our shores, where he crafted some truly fantastic technologies in the name of American progress."

As Thomas continues, I find myself staring at Victor. Even through the facemask, I can see one of his eyes twitching. He's becoming agitated. Oh Thomas. You're saying all the wrong things. Destiny. American progress. Those weren't reasons he came here. He came here to get **away** from the world, not to play errand boy for Cold War machinations.

Thomas is singing Victor's praises, and as strange as it is, Victor's not having any of it. If the story were being told correctly, maybe then. But Thomas is spinning it—making it seem like Victor is some Shakespearean hero.

When the truth is far removed from that.

No good can come from this.

* * *

This isn't good. 

But like watching any good horror movie, it's too mesmerizing to look away from. President Thomas is up there singing Doom's praises, and Doom himself looks…upset. He's starting to pace back and forth.

I lean forward in my chair. If I'm right, Doom's about forty seconds away from throwing a tantrum and vaporizing the first three rows. I wonder if Pete senses the creeping danger too. He leans close to me and whispers in my ear: "How long before Doom walks off stage?"

"I give it three minutes."

"Care to make it interesting?" Pete says and smiles. "Twenty bucks."

I shake his hand, not even looking at him.

* * *

"Thus it gives me great pleasure now," President Thomas says. "To present Victor von Doom with this honorary degree, certifying him as a Doctor of Philosophy. If he would be so accommodating, I'd like to ask that our Guest of Honor say a few words." 

Thomas holds the rolled diploma in one hand, and turns away form the podium. To Victor. Thomas speaks again, still effusive. Still sadly self-assured. Victor uncrosses his arms, approaches Thomas and the podium.

Victor throws back the edges of his cape and stops before the podium. He taps a button on his wrist before clamping both arms on the edges of the podium. Behind the grey-armor facemask, his brown eyes blink once, taking in and cataloguing the auditorium and its inhabitants.

Then it comes. His voice, soft and calmly covering up a controlled disgust.

"Six months, a year ago, I would have thought this an exercise in humiliation. Another sign of the ceaseless and insincere praise which you Americans heap on one another with such **minimal** prompting."

I fold my arms over my chest and slowly walk away from the podium, stopping in front of Iron Man.

"He's just activated something." My voice is barely a whisper; Tony's audio processors will amplify the sound. "In his armor."

"What? What happened?" Tony asks, just as quiet.

"A **reprisal**," I say. "I'll be back in a moment."

I walk away from Tony, heading backstage. When I'm out of sight, I tap the 4 disc logo on my chest, opening up a channel to Ben. He and Sue are in the air, waiting for the signal. It's about to come.

"Listen," I say calmly. "Something's about to happen. I didn't want to cause a scene, but Victor's just activated something."

"Like…a Doombot?" Ben asks.

"Likely more than one," I say flatly. "He always thinks big, Ben."

"Okay, fair enough," Ben shrugs. "So what do we do?"

"Get moving. See if you can stop it, whatever it is."

Sue's voice chimes in: "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to stay on Victor. If I'm right, I won't have much time before he makes his move."

* * *

Doom's still up there making his speech. Reed walks back on stage and paces in the vicinity of Iron Man, arms folded over his chest, staring at the floor. Iron Man, meanwhile, doesn't move. Those mono-colored green eyes in his facemask stare blankly out at the crowd. My attention goes back to Doom. 

"And something occurs to me, standing here and staring into your young…impressionable…feeble eyes."

It occurs to **me** that Ben Urich has stopped writing. He's sitting on the edge of his seat now, thumbs supporting his chin and steepled fingers shielding his mouth. Doom continues.

"Nothing has changed since I left this odious place. You Americans are all the same. So absorbed in your own pointless and manufactured battles. Such innocence I see in your eyes. It is a trait that leads to destruction of oneself and one's world, and none of you have yet to discover this fundamental truth.

"Here, then, my captivated lemmings, is your truth. You are…each and every one of you…already dead. You simply don't know it yet."

And like that, he stops talking. Steps back from the podium and allows the length of his cape to drape over his shoulders. For a long time after he finishes, the whole auditorium is silent.

President Thomas steps in front of Doom, claps his hands together like a true aspiring-host, and takes to the microphone.

"Yes, well, thank you Victor, for that. Come," Thomas says and extends a welcoming hand back towards the King of Latveria. Doom hesitates for a moment and then approaches, allowing Thomas' hand to once again wrap itself around his shoulder.

"Here we stand, ladies and gentlemen. At the dawn of a new frontier." Thomas speaks as though Doom's apocalyptic speech never even happened. "One can only hope that through continued relations with one of our most esteemed alumni, Empire State—indeed the world—may enjoy greater relations with everything Latveria has to offer.

"And now," Thomas says, standing away from Doom. He holds the rolled diploma in one hand and extends it to Doom, offering his free hand as a handshake of agreement.

"Here it comes," I whisper to myself dismally. I look to my side, and—

Damn it, Parker. He must've skipped out just a second ago. I look back to the stage. Doom stares at Thomas' hand. Motionless, he spouts hate.

And then it comes. Thomas does something very stupid as he hands the diploma to Doom.

"You know," he says, cracking a smile. "I was a little worried this wouldn't happen the way it should. I'm glad you played along, I really am, Victor. Guess I'll have to get used to legitimately calling you **Doctor** Doom now." And Thomas lets out successive chortles. Like a little girl.

Doom's silent for a millisecond before joining in and meeting Thomas' handshake, giving a brief chortle of his own. I tell myself he's playing along. But then again…I know better.

"Still," Doom says and turns back to the podium. "It might be worse."

"Huh—how so?" Thomas asks, momentarily off-guard.

"I could be a human fireball," Doom replies glibly. He meets Thomas' handshake again. And a bolt of lightning shoots from Doom's gauntlet.

Up Thomas' arm. Into his chest, and his brain. The circuits overload, and Thomas' brain undergoes its own blackout. His eyes bulge for a moment, his jaw slacks.

But Doom doesn't stop. He holds the electricity, and almost…increases the amperage. Thomas' clothes catch fire. The flames travel up his body and his hair vaporizes almost instantly. And then the body of Empire State's President falls to the floor with an echoing thud.

He didn't even scream.

Doom turns to the crowd, rips his cape from his shoulders. Two dark-colored wings spread out from behind his arms, and crimson fire ignites behind him. He's using the rocket pack.

I stand from my seat. A blast of light and heat blinds me, sends me to the floor. When I get to my feet after a moment's pause, I see a cloud of smoke and steam around me. It's everywhere. I squint hard, and through the cloud I almost see girders in the ceiling, lacing the hole, mangled and forced downward by the blast. Rubble from the roof rains through the gaping hole, crushing the oblivious and the stubborn—media people too obsessed with getting the exclusive to get the hell out.

I flame on and lift into the air, whirling in a tight circle trying to vaporize the dust. Trying to make sense of the chaos.

And it is chaos. There's no visibility to be had; dust and steam everywhere. People who previously had floor seats are in the aisles now, trampling over each other trying to get to the fire doors. The trampled are not much more than curled heaps on the floor, and the tramplers are desperate and wild-eyed. Amazing, the state people get into when a disaster rears its head.

I manage a look back at the stage. Doom's already gone.

* * *

Damn you, Victor. 

Through the maelstrom, I manage to locate Tony on the floor, using a wrist-mounted fan on one arm to disperse the smoke and directing soot-covered people with his free hand. I stretch myself over as much of the crowd as I can manage—the ones who can't or haven't yet trampled their way to one of the exits—to protect them.

I sight Ben Urich by one of the fire escapes, warding a troublemaker or three off with the broken end of a boom mic.

I direct the people under my impromptu shelter to head for Ben Urich—"the man with the stick up there!" I say—and when they're mostly out, I assume my original size and join Tony on the floor.

Johnny and Tony have cleared away most of the storm. The hole in the roof lets in afternoon sun. When the sunlight fades slowly away, Tony and I turn to see why.

Doombots—I can tell even from this distance—high in the sky, angling in at the auditorium. Dive-bombers.

Damn you, Victor.

* * *

**_Continued... _**


	6. The Hunt

_Empire State University's Chaykin Auditorium._

"What…what hit us?"

That would be Ben Urich, sitting slumped by one of the fire doors, fanning himself with what's left of his legal pad. His face is smeared with ash and dirt, his hair and clothes messy and blackened from the clouds of dirt and soot and steam. He breathes heavily and wipes beads of sweat from his brow.

"I don't know," I say. I flame on again and lift into the air. "Find a shady spot, Ben."

And I lift into the sky, not bothering to engage the approaching Doombots at point-blank range. Instead, I amp my power levels and shoot lines of fire at them. From either hand, the fire rips through their heads, vaporizing the CPUs. I do that to four of them—from at least a hundred yards off—before they're even in range of hitting me. Four down, eight left.

I look to my side, and see Iron Man in the air too. Shooting energy blasts of his own from his palms, following the through-the-head approach. He manages to get four of his own before the remaining ones pull away and regroup a hundred or so yards above us. I squint hard enough to see their LED-red eyes spark to life. IN a flash, twin bolts of red streak toward us, and I apply enough heat to counteract their laser-vision.

Sure it's probably not laser vision in the purest sense. But nuts to pure sense. After all, Doom did blow up an auditorium just to make himself feel better.

Iron Man knocks another Doombot out of commission, this one having given him slightly more trouble than the others—it actually got a hit in.

"Back off, Tony," I yell to him, just to make sure he hears me. He gives a thumbs-up and descends back to the auditorium. Before the remaining three Doombots can reconfigure to follow him, I fly a tight circle around them—herd 'em together—and switch the flame into fourth gear.

Supernova.

The purple-clad automatons almost flinch as the white-hot flame consumes them one by one. When one tries to escape, I shoot a line of fire and decapitate it.

I lower the flame's intensity and hover in the air for a moment. The lifeless hunks of Doombots fall to the earth silently. And as I return to the surface, I can't help but think this was too easy.

Tony lands and pulls off his helmet. He runs armored fingers through his hair and sighs, exhausted.

"Where did Doom get off to?" he asks.

Reed stares at the stage longingly for a second or two. His brow furrows and he sighs. "He's gone."

"Then we have to track him." Tony protests. "If we move quickly, we can get him before he gets back to Latveria."

"I'll go," Reed says thoughtfully. "Johnny, you stay here and help with clean-up. Tell the authorities whatever you know."

* * *

"Uh, we're just getting first reports in, ladies and gentlemen, from Empire State University's Chaykin Auditorium. Uhm…there's been…some kind of explosion. We're not sure what's happened or how many people are inside. But today is—or was supposed to be anyway—Commencement at the University. As is a usual custom, the University had decided to give an honorary degree to one of its distinguished alumni—in this case, Victor von Doom. 

"Our viewing public might know him better as Doctor Doom, the ruler of Latveria in Eastern Europe, and I suppose he legitimately is now; the degree he was slated to receive would have qualified him as a Doctor of Philosophy. Again, there has been an explosion at Empire State University's Chaykin Auditorium. When more details become available we'll pass them along to you. This has been a News 5 alert."

* * *

_Reed Richards. In the Fantasticar in the air over Nova Scotia._

"Peter? Are you reading me?"

"Loud and clear, Dr. Richards. Do you need something?"

"First of all, to thank you for going to the University—"

"No problem. I needed to get out of the house."

"And secondly, to ask your further assistance with something."

"Sure, what is it?"

"I need you to get down to the Bugle. I have a feeling this has gone far beyond Empire State, Peter. Jameson knows something. I'm certain of it, but he won't talk."

"Say no more, Reed. He'll talk to **me**. I'll be in touch."

* * *

_The United Nations._

_The Security Council, in special session._

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"As per your previous requests, I met Doom at the plaza just outside this building, and was soon joined by Iron Man. Doom himself landed in the Fantasticar, escorted by Reed Richards. Richards himself undertook a mission to attempt to dissuade Doom from coming here in the first place."

"His negotiations seem to have failed," says the Council Chairman. He's a Chinese man whom the papers and the rest of the Council simply call Lin.

"It is…hard to tell, Ambassador."

"Captain America, this man committed an act of willful terror on our own soil. People lost their lives because of him. Wanton property damage, reckless disregard for human life, and knowingly disobeying international statutes. These crimes do not befit a leader of **any** country. Period."

Silence.

Captain America leans forward in his chair and his eyes cast across the panel of Ambassadors. He forms his hands into fists and rests his chin on the third knuckle.

"What is it you want me to do, Ambassadors?"

"Pending further discussion with Washington, Captain, we wish to see the full weight of the Geneva Conventions brought to bear on Victor von Doom. Diplomatic immunity does not extend to murder. We are deputizing **you**, Captain America, to bring Doom to justice. Use whatever resources and personnel you require."

"Understood, Ambassador Lin. I only have two requests."

"Yes?"

"That Iron Man and the Fantastic Four aid me in this operation's success. The knowledge they possess will help me immensely. Secondly: leave me to do this on my own terms, Ambassadors. The law doesn't work to some timetable, as you well know. You will have Doom in custody soon enough. I only ask that you stay out of my way and await results you know I can deliver."

"Agreed." Lin doesn't even hesitate when he says it. Captain America stands, slings his shield over his shoulder, and glances at Lin briefly before leaving.

_Something…in the way he carries himself_, Cap notes. _In his eyes…

* * *

_

_The Daily Bugle._

"Jameson." I say his name quietly, purposefully. I don't want to scare him, or anger the sleeping beast. I just want answers, and I want them without him interrupting.

So, to that end, I lower myself from the roof on a single cable of webbing and push open the bay window behind his desk. He hears the creak in the wood and his chair shoots around in less than a second. So much for the sleeping beast.

"What? What the hell is this?"

I shoot a small net from my wrist and it wraps around Jameson tight. Keeping him in his chair, where he can't reach the phone to call his new secretary or Robbie or even the police.

"You run this paper," I say curtly. _No time for funny-ha-ha_, I remind myself. "Editorial decisions pass through you in one form or another. But you also get stories from the Associated Press."

"Who doesn't," Jameson says and leans back in his chair. The end of his cigar burns brightly for a moment as inhaled oxygen stokes the tobacco. "What's your point?"

"So someone gave you that story, and you ran with it. It didn't just happen along. What I want to know…is why? Who told you about the Doctorate in the first place?"

"You want answers, Spider-Man? Ask nicer." Say what you want about Jameson; the man demands respect wherever he goes. The minute he shows me respect, I'll take him seriously.

"Someone wanted you to know about it." I say it firmer this time. "Tell me **why**."

"You may not believe it, wall-crawler, but I have integrity."

_Yeah right_. "Lives are at stake, Jonah. Tell me who gave you the story."

"Why should I tell you? Dr. Doom blows up half of Central Park West, and the Fantastic Four and Iron Man don't do anything? I can't even leave my office when one of these supervillain **freaks** comes to town—how the hell am I supposed to trust **you**?"

"That's beside the point."

"No it's not!" Jameson's voice rises and he leans forward in the chair as far as the web net allows. "You and your masks and your secrets. You all have them, and people died because of it."

Part of me wonders at what point Jonah Jameson started caring about the world outside the Editorial Desk. I raise my wrist and fire a shot of webbing aimed at his mouth. It acts as a short-term gag--just enough to shut him up. I almost wish I could do it every day as a civvie, just so I don't have to hear Spider-bashing.

"Jonah." I say it bluntly and clearly. Clear enough to get his attention and his eyes squared on me. "You're of no use to me. Looks like I'm sadly forced to get my information the old-fashioned way."

I flip myself right-side-up and land on the carpet. I extend a leg and lightly kick Jameson's chair across the office. Underneath the webbing covering his mouth, he squeals and protests. And despite me really not wanting to do this…

I open each desk drawer one at a time, and paw through every piece of paper. And when that's done, I move onto his hard drive.

* * *

_The skies over Latveria._

"You sure you're up for this, Suzie?"

"It'll be alright, Ben," she says and stares straight ahead. It was her idea in the first place to put the 'car in hover mode and simply wait for Ironbox to come rollin' in. Me, I'd rather hunt him down and give him a good right hook or three.

But ya take yer wins where you can.

Suzie hovers in the air, a few hundred feet above the hills of sunny Latveria. It's deceptively scenic. Peaceful. If there be a tourism bureau in this backwards little hamlet, Doom'd make a fortune.

Suzie's got 'er arms folded over her chest, and she's staring out at the horizon…disapprovingly. She lifts me out of the top hatch of the 'car on an invisible platform. She stands on one of her own, and for what seems like days we wait and stare at the horizon.

If there be a tourism bureau in this backwards little hamlet, Doom'd make a fortune.

And then I spot him. A small silver dot on the flatness of green hills miles below us and stretching for miles. He's using that damn rocket pack. He's also getting closer.

When he gets in range, I crack my knuckles and let out a small chuckle. This, boys and girls, is my cuppa tea.

He gets closer and a few yards from us he stops and goes vertical. Staring straight at us, with the engines in that rocket pack set to hover. He folds his arms over his chest, matching Suzie's pose.

"My my. A welcoming party." Patronizing piece of--

"We don't want to fight you, Victor."

"Oh but you do. Oh but you will."

"Lemme at 'im, Suzie. Drop the force-field." I crack my knuckles again for good measure. Get ready fer a workout, Lefty and Bob.

Doom says nothing. The engines in the rocket pack power off in a blink, and he plummets to the ground. Still vertical. Strange thing…most free-fallers I seen usually lose attitude control and tumble like a leaf in an breeze. I dive off Suzie's platform and do a plummet towards Doom myself. In a few hundred feet or so, I'll do a belly flop on a nice rough patch of grass. Below me, Doom's head angles upward at me. His arms are still folded over his chest.

After a few seconds of free-fall, I finally catch up with him.

I get in two good hits—a right hook, and a lefty—before he fights back. As we tumble to the earth—to a structure on the outskirts of Doomstadt I eventually make out as a house--Doom manages to grab my leg and flip me over. It's a temporary loss of direction, but it's also just enough for him to power up that electro-shock gauntlet and plant a haymaker on me.

I tumble some more. That last thing I see is Doom's rocket pack firing to life again and him fading into the midday sun. And then the world closes shop for awhile.

I wake up to the rough fibers of a corn broom raking across my face. The kind of broom that only Wicked Witches use. Whoever it is hitting me…they're doing their damndest to make sure I feel it.

My eyes switch open, and I find myself looking at a pretty huge hole in the roof above me. The broom hits me again. This time I sigh, and pull myself upright slowly. I rub my forehead, and the source of the broom-beating makes her known. A little lady no bigger than my hand wielding a broom the size of a pool cue. She keeps beating me over the head, and I make out a dark shape in front of me, obscuring the fireplace.

I groan like I've just woken up, an it occurs to me that it's Doom standing there watching me get accosted by this lady. The Broom Lady starts yelling something.

_"Was tun Sie hier? Gehen Sie hinaus! Jetzt!"_

When she tries to womp me with the broom, I grab it and snap it in three pieces with one hand. I drop the fragments to the floor, and Broom Lady runs terrified back to the kitchen. I turn to Doom, standing in front of me and looking thoroughly amused. Or pissed. Hard to tell.

"Whuzzat?" I ask and point a thumb behind me, indicating the Broom Lady.

"You invaded her home, Benjamin Grimm. She reacted naturally and within the limits of the law."

"What, does Latveria have gun control or something? Why didn't she shoot me?"

"It is essential to survival that one must ensure public knowledge. Everyone in this nation knows that a conventional bullet would have no effect on your…shall we say, augmented hide. For all either of us knows, she could have been killed by an unfortunate ricochet."

"Well, la-de-da."

"Do you see, Benjamin? There are those on this unforgiving plane of existence that honor me, and profess love of their Master. I am many things, Benjamin, but here I am King."

"Yeah right," I say. In a flash, I spring from my comfy seat on the floor and tackle Victor. We land on the floor, a few inches from the fireplace. I press my hands against his and force them into the brickwork around the wrought-iron screen protecting Doom's oh-so-handsome visage from the fire. "You gotta answer for what you did. For all those people."

* * *

Ben rears a fist in the air, gets ready to let it land square in Victor's armored face. As it reaches apogee, I finally step in. 

"Ben." My voice is quiet and forceful. "Get off him."

"Reed?" he asks. He turns his head from Victor, to the front door and the small alcove surrounding it. Where I've been standing for the last three or so minutes. "How long you been watchin' us?"

"Long enough. Let him up."

He shoots Victor a dirty look and stands. Surprising even me, Ben extends a hand to help Victor to his feet, but Victor refuses it. As usual.

"Can you give us a moment, Ben?"

"Sure," he says apprehensively, and makes for the front door. A few seconds later, I hear him call Sue to open a deck of playing cards. I look back at Victor, and he locks eyes with me. I let him speak first.

"Richards. I would have thought you were saving the rabble from an unspeakable fate."

"I was. Johnny and the rest had it well in hand. I felt my efforts would be worth more here."

"In the lion's den," Doom says piquantly. "Commendable. You are one of the few who can do it convincingly."

"This isn't about convincing anyone. I came to talk…about us."

"Then speak."

"They're hunting you, Victor. The Security Council, Captain America. Probably even SHIELD. Because they're **scared**."

"Rightfully so."

"You want people to take you seriously!" My voice goes sharp suddenly. I catch it, and roll with it. "Start acting like it! I've **had** it with courtesy between us, Victor. I've spent years bending over backwards for you, and you show nothing in return. **Nothing**. You've got half of New York hunting you down with pitchforks and torches, Captain America and Iron Man leading the pack. And you're **waiting** for them! You're giving them an invitation, Victor, and you don't have to."

"Invitation to what, precisely?"

"To more humiliation. You don't want it, I know that much. Whether or not you deserve it is up for another day."

"I daresay you forget your place," Victor says tightly. His eyes narrow, spouting hatred.

"No, Victor, I'm tired of being humble to you. I'm tired of fooling myself into thinking **I** owe **you** something."

"Surely you don't. Nor I you."

"Oh I know that, but let's not kid each other Victor. We're both smart men—two sides of the same coin. Don't lie to me, especially when I can tell you're doing it. And tell me why you're not doing anything about this. I was there, I saw it all. The only thing you did was vaporize Thomas, and nobody will remember him in twenty years. But they'll remember **you**, and they'll remember how you almost killed the entire senior class of Empire State University. They'll remember Doom the murderer—the Hitler. Not Doom the statesman."

"Press these guilt trip antics of yours elsewhere, Richards, and state your point. If indeed you have one."

"You didn't blow that hole in the roof. You couldn't have. If you did, the remote you pressed on your armor would've immediately done the deed, but it didn't. So, the remote must have been for…what?"

"You know the answer."

"The Doombots," I say frankly. "That was an expected measure, Victor. Striking at me to avenge **everyone** but the right **someone**. The real question is…who blew the hole in the roof? It certainly wasn't you—you were too busy doling out veiled threats to enthralled graduates."

"The Atlantean, then, Richards," Victor replies curtly. "Who would you have me guess?"

"Anger won't help you now. But **I** can. Someone bigger than either of us is pulling our collective strings. I've got someone looking into it as we speak."

"So what do you propose? An apology, where I might prove my weakness yet again?"

"Not exactly," I rebuff. "The Doombots can be overlooked in the province of something far worse. I'm going to help you clear whatever name you have left, Victor. Whether you want me to or not."

* * *

_**Continued... **_


	7. The Invaders

**Author's Note**: As oft happens in my stories, this installment was penned by the magnificent markmark261, who spends most of his time in "Smallville," but we can overlook that. It was a chance for me to get caught up on other things, and for mark to give this a whirl. Call it a fill-in if you like, but thank you mark. And to you, constant reader, enjoy.

* * *

"_At what point then is the approach of danger to be expected? I answer, if it ever reach us, it must spring up amongst us. It cannot come from abroad. If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher."_

_--Abraham Lincoln

* * *

_

_Now._

_The Daily Bugle._

I sit at Jameson's terminal, trying the obvious passwords, while he sits next to me, webbed to his chair, angrily looking on. Unfortunately the obvious passwords don't work and I curse myself for not checking his computer first. **Before** the password-protected Mary Jane Watson screensaver had a chance to kick in. Of course, I could just steal his hard drive and access the information later on.

But that's more of a bad guy thing to do, and nowhere near as fun.

While I'm trying to second-guess Jonah's choice of password, his webbed-up mouth's making muffled curses and his feet are stamping near-continuously on the floor. I'd be worried about it drawing attention, but for Jameson? Anyone who can hear it from the bullpen will think its business as usual.

Suddenly, inspiration hits. There's one name I haven't tried.

"Thank you, War Games," I say, as I enter the name of Jameson's son, John. Of course, John's name was one of the first ones I tried, but the first time around I didn't spell it Man-Wolf.

I press the enter key only to see that that password doesn't work either. Maybe I shouldn't have included the hyphen, but I know how mad I get when they miss the hyphen out of my name and—

My name.

I look at Jameson. "No, it can't be." Color me surprised just the same.

Jameson falls silent for a moment. I type in _Spider-Man_ and the next second I'm into his account, accessing his hard drive, looking around for information and, quite frankly, I can't believe what I find. I don't know what Reed was expecting but I'm fairly sure it wasn't this.

Jameson falls silent, even embarrassed, as my search extends to the internet, leafing through his favorites, checking his history, and find a mixture of sightings, rumors, speculations, urban myths about the one thing most important to Jameson. Of all the things on the web to look at, he looks at this. It's a web of truths. A web of lies. All of them a web of the amazing, spectacular, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

Funny. I wasn't expecting to learn anything about myself today.

"I didn't know you cared, Jonah," I say, as I finally manage to divert my attention from his computer.

Jonah stamps his feet some more and replies with some muffled, no doubt witty repartee. My spider-sense starts tingling. Somebody must be coming. I run to the bay window and climb out on to the wall.

Three minutes later I'm back in Jameson's office, hiding where he'll never see me.

In front of me a secretary I don't recognize is trying to pull my web from Jonah's mouth.

"Who did this?" she asks in all innocence. Definitely new.

The web holding Jameson—still struggling—to his chair dissolves and he leaps to his feet. He pushed the secretary aside with a forceful arm and heads for his computer.

Webbing's dissolved. Means that I must have wasted an hour searching his desk and surfing the web and I still couldn't find anything. I guess Reed's just being paranoid. So Jonah knows that Doom's getting a doctorate—could have been the University's PR office letting the island's biggest circulating paper in on the news. That simple.

But….maybe…

Then I notice a sheet of paper on Jonah's desk that wasn't there before. As I inch forward to try and look at it, Jonah starts looking around his office.

"WHRIZZEE," he shouts through the web covering his mouth.

"Sorry?" says the secretary. I finally get close enough to read the carefully-scripted small caps on the note.

"You stupid, brain-dead bimbo," shouts Jameson, and then realizes that the webbing around his mouth has also dissolved. Undeterred he continues. "Spider-Man's been snooping in here the last hour or so. He could still be here. Make yourself useful and call the police!"

"Maybe you should keep your windows locked," suggests the secretary, trying to be helpful.

"And make it look like I'm afraid of him? No way, Sharon," he says, as he looks out of the bay window at the surrounding walls, hoping to spot me.

"It's Karen," she says, pointing a protesting finger in the air. Jameson ignores her and starts looking under his desk. What's he doing that for? He's looking for a spider, not a McFly.

"I'm sure he's here somewhere," says Jameson. He narrows his eyes, and his lips curl upwards in a kind of smile only the Grinch could pull off. He turns his gaze to the ceiling and his smile disappears.

"Looking to the heavens for inspiration?" I ask Jonah.

Jonah's gaze falls from the ceiling and turns towards me. At last, I've been noticed.

"Parker?" he shouts.

"I just wanted to see if you've got any work for me." I shrug. "Geezers playing chess in the park got…old."

"After those pictures of smoke you brought back from the University—" he begins angrily, and then Karen interrupts him.

"Mister Jameson," she says, pointing the finger in the air again. "There's an urgent message for you. I left it on your desk."

Jameson walks over to the desk and picks up the note that I've already read. A note that confirms Reed's suspicions were right.

As Jameson reads the note, his anger towards me wanes. "Get to Latveria, Parker. Maybe you can get some decent pictures there."

"At the risk of a stupid question, boss," I argue. "How? Company jet? It's not exactly a tourist destination."

"Show some initiative, Parker," he yells, "and close the door on your way out!"

"Sure thing," I say, as I leave the office, and then it's back into my other work clothes as I try and figure out a way to get to Latveria and tell Reed what I've found out and what it means…before it's too late.

On my way to the street, I think about the name 'Frost.' What an odd name...

* * *

_Now._

_The SHIELD Helicarrier, in the skies above Spain._

I'm stuck with Iron Man and Captain America on a long flight to Latveria. Sad for me that they're not the best company in the world. Iron Man seems to be keeping to himself; Cap keeps regaling me with war stories about the **first** Human Torch, and the 'good old days' when Namor actually contributed to society. I feign interest and wonder whether I should be telling him a story about the Acrobat.

Then, much to my relief, Iron Man interrupts the Captain's latest tale. "Incoming transmission."

A picture of Colonel Fury suddenly pops up from one of the many viewscreens situated aboard the SHIELD Helicarrier. I almost wonder why he doesn't bother showing up in person. Maybe Sharon Carter's got more of his interest than we do…

"Captain America," he says with some manner of smugness. He puffs on the cigar screwed between his lips. "We need to talk about this Doom situation."

"I know my orders, Colonel," says Captain America, walking towards the view screen. His eyes are fixed on Fury, and when he speaks there's a certain…security to his voice. Very few people can be both condescending and gracious at once. Cap pulls it off nicely. "I'm bringing Doom in."

"And **I'm** the UN liaison. The one who sets resources and timetables here, Steve. So I suggest you listen."

"I've got my shield, Colonel," replies Captain America, raising his arm to show it. "I don't think I need **yours**."

"You do know who you're facing, don't you?" says Fury. I almost wonder if he knows who he's facing. He seems unnaturally wound-up about this. Probably wishes he were at home with a good book or a good cigar. Or something better than either of those.

"A criminal. A terrorist." Cap says it with the same flat sternness as before. "I **understand** this, Nick."

At which stage, Iron Man intervenes. "I think we can handle things, Colonel Fury."

"You really think so?" asks a skeptical Fury.

"You don't?" Cap asks.

I can't keep quiet any longer. "Colonel? Hi, Johnny Storm here. Love your eye-patch. Very mysterious; sure the girls like it too. But if I may? Usually it just takes four of us to have tea with Doom. The other three are there now…Reed's trying to reason with him."

"Reason with him?" says Fury. "You can't reason with Doom. I've known tyrants and I've known dictators and they make up their own reason. I don't think I need to cite Genosha here."

"This is **different**. But since we're on the subject, what did you have in mind?" asks Iron Man. "You're a military man, Nick; you **know** that he'll expect a frontal assault. There's no point sending all your troops directly against Doom. You must realize that he knows all about your weapons—and that he's devised capable countermeasures. Along with myself, he probably designed the prototypes. No, we need to be subtle. And we're only after Doom; the last thing I want is the body of a dead Latverian on the six o'clock news."

"I didn't have a bloodbath in mind," replies Fury. "SHIELD can do subtle. SHIELD can do stealth. We'll be your **back-up** if anything goes wrong."

"I've been deputized to bring Doom in," says Captain America. He folds his arms over his chest, lets the shield rest against one of his motionless legs. "I don't want you or your forces getting in my way. Keep this Helicarrier at the ready, but restrain yourself. Deal?"

"Understood, Captain," said Fury. "But if you fail…"

"We won't," says Iron Man, waving a hand expressively, turning away from a monitor panel to enter the conversation again. "With Captain America, Johnny and the web-spinning stowaway my radar's just detected, Doom doesn't stand a chance."

Colonel Fury, despite the viewscreen, somehow manages to look directly at Iron Man. When he speaks, the grit in his voice sounds suddenly new.

"Don't underestimate Doom. He's designed some of our most sophisticated weapons without even thinking about it. A man who created a lethal suit of armor—a precise replication of which we've been unable to perfect in thirty years. A man who's conquered time-travel, can swap minds, and has wielded the power cosmic. Aside from that, he knows government and military secrets that even **I** can't get access to. Doctor Doom is the most dangerous man alive. I **mean** it, Stark. And until he's safely locked up with round-the-clock supervision nobody on this Earth is safe. That's why, even though I have an advantage in this area, I'm not prepared to turn a blind eye to his activities. I don't want to go to war with Doom—I'd feel safer going to war against the Kree, truth be told. But if it has to be done, it has to be done."

"Very well, Nick." Iron Man strokes his metal chin. "If we need help, we'll ask for it. Deal?"

Fury nods. "Just give the signal and SHIELD's finest will storm that castle. I only hope it doesn't come to that. Over and out."

While Captain America and Iron Man exchange glances, I slip away to a secluded corner of the Helicarrier and contact Reed to warn him about what's coming his way.

* * *

_Soon._

_Castle Doom._

Victor and I sit in the highest of Castle Doom's towers, locked in battle.

"Surprised by my opening gambit?" he asks. A steel hand removes a pawn from the board.

"Indeed," I reply, as my neck stretches and my head circles the board, trying to see things from Victor's angle. "That pawn didn't pose any threat to you. Then again…neither did Dr. Thomas."

Underneath the grey-steel mask, Victor's brown eyes blink slowly and only once.

"I fail to see how that is my fault, Richards. The University was foolish enough to invite me, foolish enough to waste valuable time and their resources. They should be prepared to face the consequences of the life they choose."

"And you? Have you faced those consequences?"

"Don't dare **impugn** my honor." Victor's voice rises sharply.

"He was just an innocent victim," I argue, hoping that Victor will show some remorse.

"Melodrama is wasted on you, Richards," he says, rising to his feet. He throws his cape behind his shoulders and lets the wind carry it out behind him. He walks out on a nearby battlement and extends a finger—pointing down, beyond the parapet, to the streets below. "Tell me, would you truly feel pity if one of those dots stopped moving?"

I recline in my seat and stare at him expectantly, not blinking. He sets his sights on one of his subjects. "That one. The man and his offspring, carrying his wares to the market. I would give but a second's thought to his extermination."

My arms stretch, wrapping around his hand, and he looks back at me with amusement. "Very well, Richards, I'll spare him… for the moment. Now, let's get back to our game."

As I follow him back into the tower, I look out over Latveria and see the darkness slowly closing in. It'll still be light back home. America will be waking up to reports of death and destruction at Empire State. And here, I'll be playing wits with Victor.

Victor sits back down at the board, and I try and turn the conversation back to the present predicament. "Barring Dr. Thomas, that incident at the University wasn't your fault."

"Agreed," Victor nods curtly, "but it matters not. Your compatriots are set in their ways, on a path to destroy me, no doubt."

"Of course it matters," I tell him. "They're blaming you for something you didn't do. Exoneration is the only solution."

"True," says Victor. "I have become accustomed to persecution. It is a hallmark of my people. But I do not ask for your sympathies or your charity, Richards. It is the persecutors you shall feel sorry for. Soon enough."

"She'd love it here." I sit back in the chair and cross my arms, staring at Victor narrowly.

"What?" Victor's voice is flat.

"Your mother. She'd be so proud of you. Of what you've become. And what a nice **police** state you run."

Victor falls silent for a moment, and then angrily thrusts a fist out, knocking pieces from the chessboard.

"Stalemate," he says, getting to his feet, then stops as he's suddenly distracted by something he sees outside. There, on the horizon, is a SHIELD Helicarrier. He turns back to me, the wind pressing his green cape close to his body

"Well?"

"What?"

"Our prescient situation, Richards. Would you suggest that I stand and fight, or surrender and tell the truth?"

"I can help you, Victor," I tell him. "In a few minutes, that Helicarrier is going to drop about 500 troops on us, and we'll have to fight to exonerate you. I just wanted you to know. I'm here to help."

"A comforting thought, Richards. I shall cherish it in my dreams." Victor's eyes pan toward me derisively. "You think they would listen to you? A man who sees eternal good in anyone? A man who would defend Galactus, the devourer? No. They fear me more than they respect you. And this exercise shall demonstrate that."

"But—"

"He may be of more assistance than you know, Victor. But you're the one we truly want."

I turn around, to see a man and woman stepping out of the shadows. A man, tall and dark-haired with a colonial ponytail draping down to his neckline, is dressed in nineteenth century costume, with frilled cuffs partially covering his hands. The blonde woman at the man's side has a white cape and matching lingerie, with all the wrong parts showing bronzen skin.

And it occurs to me that I've seen these people before. I've heard Charles talk about them.

Sebastian Shaw, the Black King of the Hellfire Club. And Emma Frost, his White Queen.

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	8. Journey into Mystery

_Now._

_Latveria._

Sebastian Shaw and Victor von Doom.

Two geniuses at an impromptu war against each other.

Shaw, the de facto leader of the Hellfire Club, has just admitted his hand in this whole affair. He was the one who pressed Empire State University to grant Victor the Doctorate. He left it to Victor and his iron-clad superiority complex to fill in the blanks.

And the rest of us were perfect supporting players. Tony and Steve were the crux of the issue, arguing over the very legality of Victor being in America. Shaw even figured me into the equation.

He knew. Wherever Victor went, I'd be right there behind him.

I've always been where Victor is, be it a step ahead or step behind.

"Shaw." My voice is surprisingly firm. But then, I make it a point to surprise myself on a daily basis. "You're making a big mistake."

"On the contrary," Shaw says. He loosens his cufflinks and speaks with a frank tone. Like he's taking himself too seriously. "It's all in the cards, Dr. Richards. The way I see it, you have two options. Fight me and waste your energy. Or…stop that Helicarrier from stealing Victor's country from him."

It happens faster than even I can register.

Victor flies from my side and knocks out Emma with one hit. He turns to Shaw in a nanosecond and starts wailing on him with uncharacteristic brute force. Shaw sees it coming and blocks Victor's barrage. But it's only a barrage of fists. It'll get worse. I look beyond the castle, at the Helicarrier and the troops dropping from it.

Decisions.

Decisions cut short by Victor calling to me.

"You must stop Fury!" he yells, strangling Shaw with one hand. "He is all that matters now."

I nod once and stretch to the street. Hopefully, I'll be able to intercept him and head off this catastrophe.

* * *

_Tony_—

Iron Man and Captain America stand perched at the bow of the Helicarrier. Neither of them feels the autumn wind scouring the deck.

"Steve."

"What?"

"You've been staring at the landscape for ten minutes. Don't you think we should…lead our team?"

"Why? Every one of them but Reed is down there. They can handle it."

"Okay," Iron Man says plainly. "What happens when they get to the castle and find Doom fighting the ghost of Thomas Jefferson?"

"What?"

Iron Man throws an arm around Cap's shoulder and directs him toward Castle Doom—a darkened monolith against auburn twilight. "There. The highest point. See?"

And Cap does. Doom trading blows with…well, the ghost of Thomas Jefferson. Doom seems to have the upper hand. That's…interesting.

"Huh."

"I told you," Iron Man says. The jets in his boots fire to life and he lifts off the deck. "Are you coming?"

Cap says nothing and grabs one of Iron Man's open hands.

Things were about to get interesting.

* * *

_Victor_—

Doom and Shaw fall to the ground, a twisting, embattled tandem. A bastard Castor and Pollux. When Doom maneuvers in mid-air and delivers a crude haymaker to Shaw, he gets the upper hand.

And when they land, he almost crushes Shaw's spine.

Doom kneels close and grabs Shaw by the lapels and hoists him within an inch of the cold and forbidding iron mask.

"You fool." It doesn't sound malicious, not even coming from Doom. It simply sounds…true. "How dense must one be to test the power of von Doom? Have you learned nothing from your erstwhile companions. The Genoshan dictator for instance."

"Actually," Shaw croaks through blood-soaked teeth and torn clothes. "I have."

And he hits Doom. Hard.

Hard enough that the Lord of Latveria is knocked off Shaw's body and flies a meter in the air, coming to rest against the remnants of a stone wall. Doom stands slowly. Eyes burning with hate catch Shaw's attention. He smiles anyway.

"You forget, my dear scarred friend, that I possess power far greater than that of an ordinary human. You cannot hurt me, you cannot kill me."

"Unlikely," Doom says and raises and arm. Shaw flies in the opposite direction and lands on an ox-cart. He stands up and regards an approaching Doom curiously.

"It's a negative-field generator, capable of temporarily overriding the laws of physics. Tell me, Sebastian. My one inviolate asset is my mind, Shaw. If I cannot destroy you with my physical accoutrements, then I shall use the next best thing." Doom taps hire forehead lightly. "The most dangerous weapon in the universe."

Doom crouches over Shaw and starts choking him. Slowly. Behind the iron-mask, Victor von Doom scowls and keeps squeezing. Relishing a feeling he has not felt since his childhood.

"When I am finished with you," Doom says. His voice is calmness itself. The true mark of a dedicated, if unbalanced, genius. "You will understand new avenues of pain."

* * *

_Johnny_—

"Oh. Goody."

"Way to think positive, Matchstick."

"Well. Ben. I see a street full of Doombots ahead of us."

"Safeguard, y'think? Mebbe Ironbox lieks his security. Me, I jsut like breakin' 'em."

Ben cracks his knuckles, and sort of like a soldier on a battlefield, he's anxious to get into the action. Next to him, Spidey does the same. "What are you worryin' about, Bic-head? Can't we just do what we always do?"

And not even waiting for a go-ahead, Ben and Spidey jump ahead, clobbering Doombots left and right as they make for the Castle.

So much for a consensus.

"Nice set of friends," a voice tells me from behind. I crane my neck slightly to see its Cap. Good ol' Cap. He claps a hand on my shoulder, and walks past me, swinging his shield in front of him. Way to go, Cap. Nerves of steel.

"Human Torch," I say, flaming on. "I think Doom needs another lesson."

Spidey's already got ten under his belt—"twelve," he says, correcting his count with every new lifeless 'bot. As for Ben and Iron Man up there? Well, they're just putting all of us to shame. But then…Ben was made for this kind of stuff.

That's not gonna stop me from beating his tally though. When five 'bots get in close together, I lift into the air and pull a supernova on them. Way to showboat Johnny.

Up ahead, Iron Man's already halfway up the hill to Castle Doom.

And…

"Why is Reed standing in Tony's way?" I ask to no one in particular.

* * *

_Victor_—

"Why?"

Shaw replies, and his voice is barely a creak. The audio-receptors in Doom's armor intercept and amplify the Black King's voice.

"It was science…"

"You're lying," Doom says. More forceful this time. And he squeezes harder on Shaw's throat. "Doom is no mere science experiment."

"To us…Hellfire…you were. Wanted to…test your limits…"

Shaw's eyes pop out ever so slightly in their sockets. The blood vessels are saturated. Ready to pop.

Doom relaxes his grip.

"Explain."

* * *

_Reed_—

"Sebastian Shaw is behind it all.He influenced the University to do what they did.He's the reason you're all after Victor."

"That's ridiculous, " Iron Man sneers. "I know Sebastian Shaw. If he's the Black King, I'm the King of England. Come on, Reed, you saw what he did to Thomas."

"And I know he did it in retaliation. He doesn't attack unless attacked first," Reed says vigorously. And this, calmer: "Not anymore."

Even through the armor, Reed can discern Tony Stark shrugging. This is Stark and his on the wagon irritation. "Alright," Iron Man says, taking great pains to do so. "We'll follow your lead."

"Wonderful," Reed says.

* * *

_Victor_—

Shaw catches his breath and sits up.

"The Hellfire Club, as you doubtless know, has been an agent for antagonism for centuries. Our latest incarnations have taken particular pride in persecuting Xavier's teams. And we wanted to branch out."

"And that extends to making Doom a wanted man?"

"To making you a potential member. You may be surprised at certain of our members, past and present."

Under the iron mask, Doom scowls. This puling spawn of an inbred woman's loins is not fit to gaze upon Doom.

"You are in no position to make requests of me, Shaw."

"It's power, Victor," Shaw says, his voice reekinga controlled hate."You'll have unlimited power. You'll be able to control nations and people like people herd animals, my friend. All I need is your agreement."

Doom's hooded skull cocks to one side. His cape drapes around his shoulders; Shaw doesn't even see Doom unclasp the holster and remove the Broomhandle Mauser. Doom readies the pistol and holds it behind his back.

His eyes behold a quivering and beaten Black King with a cold, if curious scrutiny. The offer is tempting. But then…

"I already command nations, Shaw. You and yourpreparatory school rejectsmay continue playing pretend with the fate of nations. **My** fate, however, lies with the rest of Latveria."

Shaw's eyes narrow. And he stands.

"And this is…your final decision?"

"Yes." There's no hesitation in Doom's voice.

Shaw scowls and lunges at Doom. The sharp cry of a gunshot silences both.

And the Black King recognizes his awful mistake in an instant. In an instant, Shaw's hand touches what's left of his stomach and comes back dripping blood.

"That's not…that's not…fair…"

Shaw gasps vainly for air. And when he can't find any, he falls to the ground, diving with unnatural quickness into shock. Doom's shadow falls over the Black King, and angles the gun at his forehead.

_Pitiful creature._

"I would ordinarily keep this weapon in reserve for more worthy enemies. Perhaps even the unworthy enemies are the ones most worthy of Doom's consideration."

And Doom pulls the trigger. Too late for Reed to stop it.

* * *

**_Continued_**... 


	9. Finale

_**Latveria:**_

In the fall, night comes to Doomstadt thus:

The trees are in the last phases of shedding their leaves, the dead sheets of orange and brown litter the streets and the roofs indiscriminately. The whole affair makes Doomstadt look…dirty. Rustic. A slightly less imposing version of Stoker's Transylvania.

The sun turns from a glowing yellow to a sickly orange and loses its last grip on the sky, disappearing behind a misty, violet sky. Thin clouds of a coming winter appear and stars creep out from behind the veil. Sometimes those clouds break apart enough to let angles of light shine down on Doomstadt's overgrown, overcrowded, Hanoverian homes.

The very city itself is a stationary witness to history. Armenians and Gypsies, Turks and Vandals. Doomstadt had been the crossroad for thousands of years of conflict; Roman legions had crossed the Danube to the south and failed to stave off Barbarians in the north. They failed. When Victor von Doom returned to his homeland and assumed power from an undeserving and uncivilized despot, he succeeded.

The Romans were shallow.

Victor von Doom was righteous.

* * *

Without turning to see Richards, without opening his eyes to see the beauty of his work, Victor von doom speaks as calm and characteristic as ever. 

"Dr. Richards. Have you come to make a martyr of me?"

From the corner of his eye, Reed perceives movement. Before he moves to do anything about it, he sees Captain America's shield wheeling through the air on a collision course with Doom.

Underneath the cold steel facemask, Doom scowls and readies himself.

_One chance._

He sees the shield flying at him; if he knew no better the shield would appear motionless, a simple disc suspended in the air yet coming ever closer.

Doom crouches slightly and raises a hand.

Catches the disc in midair and wheels around in place, securing the leather straps around his hand and forearm.

The whole affair takes less than five seconds.

Doom's eyes narrow and he notices the Human Torch standing, slightly off-balance, mouth agape with surprise.

"Yowza." Ben Grimm's voice cuts through still air. He touches a rocky hand to a rocky face in concern.

Dooms peaks, not looking away from Shaw's corpse: "What now, Richards? Shall I deign to turn myself over to your graces?"

"That would be the smart thing," the Human Torch says through gritted teeth. He points a flaming hand at Shaw's contorted body. "How many murders does this make? Fifteen?"

Doom disregards the comment. His head cranes to see Shaw's body. It's bleeding out onto the brickwork in the street.

_Unfortunate_.

"His death was nonessential, Jonathan, as was his life. Why should I care?"

"Because he's a friggin human being, you piece of—"

"Johnny." Richards' voice is calm and authoritative. Like a good father. "That's enough. You and the others start clean-up. I'll speak with Victor."

Iron-Man speaks up, pointing an armored finger in Reed's face. "Like hell you will. We have a job to do. Victor von Doom—" Iron Man's voice quivers ever so slightly. "—You're under arrest. I think you can kiss your little fiefdom goodbye."

Iron Man motions to Captain America and turns back to Doom.

Under his facemask, Doom smiles.

And, despite the armor, makes a fleeting eye contact with Tony Stark

Reed Richards notes it, but all too late. All he can do:

"Oh—"

Iron Man pivots in place and raises both his arms in front of him, palms flat against the thick and dead autumn air.

"**_Fools, von Doom is Latveria_**!"

Blue energy explodes from Iron Man's gauntlets.

Captain America, without shield, crouches and flips over Iron Man.

Reed Richards and Johnny Storm sidestep with centimeters to spare.

The blast hits Ben Grimm in the chest. He doesn't fail, he doesn't even flinch. He crosses his arms in front of him and steadies himself, accepting the blast. Waiting to reflect it back on the sender.

Behind the armor-mask, the mind of Victor von Doom sees Grimm…pushing back…?

"Impossible." Doom's mind pushes Stark to say it, and after the lapse in logic, Doom retakes his anger. "You will **die**, Benjamin! At my hand, heroes will weep for your passing!" The gauntlets automatically respond to Doom's mental commands and increase the power.

With one hand, approaching Grimm, Doom blasts Richards and Storm into submission. When Captain America lays a hand on the armored shoulder, countermeasure 10,000 volts shock Rogers into submission.

Doom increases the power. Through the heat and the power and the sheer magnitude of the blast, Grimm still resists.

"You will fail, Benjamin. They all have."

Grimm falls to one knee. The energy from Iron Man's armor ceases.

Smoke billows from Ben Grimm's rocky hide. He pants heavily. And lets the other knee down. He's exhausted. Too greatly to stand--or even to reply.

"Yes," the mind of Doom gloats. "Bow before me, Benjamin."

"You…you win, Vic."

"Oh I know that." An armored hand pulls off the yellow facemask of Iron Man. Tony Star's eyes glow a mesmerizing, demonic, emerald. "Look around you, Benjamin. You've been ill-used. Mistreated. These people, lying prostrate in my streets like vagabonds…do you genuine believe they care for you?"

"You betcha," Grimm sneers.

"You are a foreigner to them, Benjamin. They seek only their familiars and shut out any who do not—how do you say—two the line. Dr. Richards has no room for malcontents, and you are certainly one of those, yes?"

The mind of Doom tells Tony Stark to kneel. To whisper in Grimm's rocky dimple of an ear with a calm and authoritative and soothing voice.

"They know not of hunger, nor desire, for those things have been so readily available to them for all the years of their lives. They think they have known sadness—Richards with his wife's unfortunate miscarriage, and the super-soldier with his untimely incarceration among the ice—but their sadness is of the child who spills his ice cream. There is no attenuation in them. They quarrel amongst themselves like that child over matters only a child would. Do you see?"

"Yeah," Ben says. Quietly.

"You are an amazing paradox, Benjamin. As I understand it, Americans seem to thrive on the indulgences of the flesh. But you…you are aggressive, and you have much to give. You see? Like Richards and Jonathan over there. You have much to give, and et they would begrudge you a speck of food at the dinner table, would they not?"

Grimm's head turns away. Doom touches one of Stark's hands to the rocky chin and brings the head back.

"Listen to me," the voice says with grave flatness. "You are still rich, and full-blooded. Still so very full of the anger and aggression which people—men like you and I—require to merely survive.

The man who acts as Iron Man stands and brings Ben up with him, clapping a hand to his shoulder.

"You are a good man, Benjamin. I can make you better. I sense…you do not wish to leave Latveria?"

"No."

"And so you shall not. Ever again."

The body of Iron Man steps behind Grimm and raises one arm to the base of his rocky skull.

In a flash, Ben Grimm's turns around and smashes the gauntlet from Tony Stark's arm in one hit. Shards of red and yellow steel and machinery and micro-circuitry flutter to the ground, the heavier pieces.

For a moment, the face of Tony Stark is blank, staring in disbelief at what just happened. His eyes flash green again.

"Oh, way to go, bucko," Grimm mutters to himself. "You roused th' beast."

Stark's eyes look suddenly worried. Anxious. Thy dart back and forth between Grimm and the prone body of Doctor Doom a meter away. Ben sees the armor lunging forward—Doom's last-ditch and thoroughly stupid mistake—and simply rips him with an extended foot.

Iron Man crashes to the street and rolls over on his back. Ben extends a hand to help him, up. The eyes aren't glowing anymore.

"What…what happened?"

"Ol' Doomsie took controllaya, Tony. Don't worry, though, we'll have you back in the hot tub with a supermodel or six by six tonight."

"That's a relief, I—"

He suddenly notices his left gauntlet is missing. No, that's not quite fair. It's—

"Is that my armor?" he says and points to the shards on the ground.

"Uh, yeah." Ben scratches his head, faking concern. "I had to get a little rough with you."

"Well, as long as that's the only thing you broke."

Tony slides his mask back over his face and turns away. Ben slaps his back as he does it.

"No worries, metal man. I gotcha covered. You jes' send the bill ta Reed. He'll take care of it."

"So noted, I—"

"What? What is it with you and cutting off mid-sentence?"

"I just noticed," Stark says. He points to the dead and contorted body of Sebastian Shaw a few meters ahead. The stream of blood, its source in what was formerly Shaw's prefrontal lobe, is just now pooling around Ben's feet.

"Ewww," he says and lifts his feet.

"Don't be a girl, Benjy." Ben turns around to see the Human Torch hovering in the air, aflame from the waist down. "Think of it as wine."

"Easy fer you t'say, Bic-head. You ain't innit."

"Fact of which I'm very proud," Johnny says and gives a mock-salute.

Reed stands, dusts himself off. Smiles quickly at Johnny and Ben, and turns away.

"Where does he think he's goin?" Ben asks.

Johnny leans in close and whispers: "I think, to join our regularly scheduled old guy convention."

Ben's head cranes skyward momentarily and he turns to Johnny. "Just how old are you?"

Reed stands in the empty spot between Iron Man and Captain America. The three of them stare at Shaw's corpse with scientific scrutiny.

"Alright, I'll say it first," Stark says. "It's strange. This isn't like Doom."

"Definitely," Rogers adds.

"Yes, yes," Reed waves a quieting hand. "We know."

"Question is," Rogers interrupts, scratching his head. "We can't just toss him in any old cemetery. We could make a martyr of him, and who knows what it'd be like with graverobbing."

"Who would steal the body of Sebastian Shaw?" Stark asks.

"Stranger things have happened," Reed says and kneels over the body, closing the eyes with the heel of his palm. "I have an idea."

* * *

In Castle Doom's highest parapet, a shrouded figure observes three black spots—the departing Fantastic Two, the super-solider, the alcoholic and the spider-creature—fading into the night sky, toward a stationary black crescent just south of Orion. _The Helicarrier._

A wind tolls through the empty town forum, wrapping itself around Victor von Doom's body. Behind the cold iron facemask, Doom's mouth curls downward.

_Flee, Richards. Run back to your false citadel of comfort and tell your friends that their time has expired…

* * *

_

_**The SHIELD Helicarrier. En route to Manhattan.**_

_Spider-man and the Human Torch._

Johnny's kind enough to bring me a gallon of soda—probably from Fury's private stocks. When Johnny kills it, our conversation moves to the evening's transpirings.

"I'm sorry we brought you into this," he says.

"Meh," I wave a hand. "It's what I live for. The wife may not like it, but it'll pass. Between you, me, and the table here, I'd be lying if I said I had anything better to do."

"Did you?"

"Grade papers."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"So," he says, after a minute of silence. "How'd it go with Jameson?"

"Peachy. Though I think his 'I hate Spider-man bit' is a little too convincing.

"How do you figure?" Johnny cocks his head.

"Lemme tell you a bedtime story about password protection…"

* * *

_**Latveria.**_

Deep in the subbasements of Castle Doom, a lone figure in a black suit and an ebony-death mask lays flowers on a granite sarcophagus.

"You were meant for greater things. Your destiny was not to be found in the bowels of Hell, to be suppliant to a demon. You were but a victim of circumstance, and privy to events much larger than either of us could have possibly predicted. You gave me…what only one other on this earth has, and for that I thank you. But I cannot return you to this plane.

Everything I have done, all the advances and sacrifices I have made…the lives I've ruined…it was all for you. But I cannot have you back. I know this now. And not in a thousand years would I ask for your return. I shall miss you terribly, but I keep your true memory alive in my heart. Not on this slab of stone. I…miss you.

Mother."

* * *

_**The United Nations.**_

_Iron Man and Captain America._

"So?"

"So what?"

"Thought you'd be interested. They arrested Lin earlier."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Conspiracy. Searched his office, raided files. The whole shebang."

"You know, if they were half as serious about this with people like the Skull. Or Magneto—"

"He's been making a lot of trips back East lately, Steve. Been spending too much time in Latveria."

"Then his anger at Doom was staged. Deflecting the floodwaters away from himself."

"You bet."

"Smart move."

Iron Man shrugs. "If you say so. But you ask me, I say something doesn't add up. This may just be the tip of the iceberg."

"Tony," Rogers smiles. "Ever the futurist."

* * *

_**Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.**_

_Reed Richards and Scott Summers._

"You're certain you can take care of everything?"

"Yes, Dr. Richards. Despite whatever he did—and…I'm more than willing to take your word for it—we'll give Dr. Shaw a proper burial. You have my word."

"Thank you, Scott."

* * *

_**Latveria.**_

"Then…things worked excellently, did they not?"

"The heroes are no longer in my country, if that is what you mean."

"It is." She smiles thinly and runs silken hands across harsh iron. "Tell me…what do you mean?"

"Stay your hand, harlot. I have accepted your commission only so far as it benefits my purposes. Further intrusion by your…club…and our relations shall come to an abrupt end."

"Duly noted. And…your doctoral degree?"

"It is of no concern. Not anymore."

Emma Frost slides one arm around Victor von Doom's waist. Under the cold steel mask, the King of Latveria—the Black King of the Hellfire Club—scowls.

_The winds are changing_…

* * *

**_End..._**


End file.
